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Book 


Copyright fl° ~BcL. 

COp^ ^ 

COHffiSGHT BSPOSHi 


























THE 

BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 



THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

NEW YORK • BOSTON • CHICAGO • DALLAS 
ATLANTA • SAN FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN & CO., Limited 

LONDON • BOMBAY • CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 


THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Lm 

TORONTO 







/ 

J 

THE 


BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


BY 

J. AUBREY TYSON 

J v\ 

AUTHOR OF “THE SCARLET TANAGEr” 



THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

1923 

All rights reserved 







PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 



'Copyright, 1923, 

By THE MACMILLAN COMPANY. 


Set up and Electrotyped. Published, 1923. 



FERRIS PRINTING COMPANY 
NEW YORK 


FEB 2 8 '23 vi " 



©CU09C538 V 









CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I. A Salt Marsh Adventure. 3 

II. At Destiny’s Crossroads.18 

III. The Mystery of a Derelict.35 

IV. The Shadow of Nemesis.68 

V. The Eyes of Rajiid.112 

VI. A Wanderer from Araby.171 

VII. The Image of God.244 

VIII. On Desert Sands. 260 

IX. The Quest of the Beautiful.271 

X. At the End of a Trail. 292 

XI. “What Dreams May Come?”.306 

XII. The Drained Glass. 329 

















THE 

BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 




THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


CHAPTER I 

A SALT MARSH ADVENTURE 

For more than two hours, a solitary hunter, crouching in 
a reed-covered sneak-boat that was drawn close to a 
muddy bank topped with coarse, yellow grass, had been 
gazing moodily skyward or across the broad expanse of 
gloomy marshes to the north of Great South Bay. Near 
him a score of gray and black decoy ducks bobbed lightly 
on the chill, drab waters of a wide creek, but their 
complacent attitudes thus far had failed to inspire among 
vagrant wildfowl any desire to seek their companionship. 

The hunter was a thick-set, sullen-looking man, with a 
broad, clean-shaven face and thick, curly gray hair. He 
had only one eye—a greenish-yellow, searching left eye 
which often produced uncanny effects on persons on whom 
it gazed. For five years it had been this man’s wont to 
go down to Sellersville on the first day of November. 
There he was known to Captain Peters, the boathouse- 
keeper, as Colonel Canbeck. From Peters he hired a little 
sloop, with a rusty motor that was barely powerful enough 
to drive the craft up and down the tidal creeks, which, 
flowing through the monotonous expanse of salt meadows, 
empty into Great South Bay. 

The sloop had a closed cabin in which were a couple of 
bunks, a folding table, several lockers and a stove. Can- 
beck’s shooting trips lasted one week, and he always went 

3 


4 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


on them alone, seldom getting more than ten or twelve 
miles from the Peters boathouse. Upon arriving at the 
shooting grounds, he would anchor the sloop, and for two 
or three days at a time the little craft would remain at the 
same anchorage. Leaving the sloop alone, Canbeck would 
paddle off in a sneak-boat, sometimes a mile or two distant, 
and, after floating his decoys, he would sit motionless for 
hours, within his screen of reeds, except when, fortune 
favoring him, he was engaged in bringing down and 
gathering in such wildfowl as exposed themselves to his 
unerring aim. 

It was now a few minutes after four o’clock, and the 
gray sky and lapping waters were growing more chill and 
dark. It was Canbeck’s first day out this season, and 
since ten o’clock in the morning his gun had been silent. 
With an exclamation of disgust, he deposited it in the 
bottom of the boat and began preparations for his return 
to the sloop. 

As the duckhunter, with reluctant hands, began to draw 
in one of the strings to which his floating decoys were 
attached, he swept a last questioning glance around him. 
Suddenly the expression of bored resignation on his fea¬ 
tures gave place to one of mild interest. Faintly, at first, 
but soon more distinctly, he heard the distant drone of an 
airplane. For several moments his attempts to locate the 
plane were vain; then he saw it—a small, black blot on 
the western sky. Uncertain concerning the course it was 
taking, Canbeck reflected that it probably was one of the 
machines attached to the Mineola flying field and now was 
returning to its base. 

But, as the drone became more viciously assertive, 
Canbeck observed that the great, man-made hawk was 
speeding eastward, leaving Mineola further and further 
behind it, following a course which would take it directly 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


5 


over his head. As it drew nearer, however, it veered 
suddenly, and Canbeck saw it was a seaplane, flying at 
a height of about six hundred feet above creeks and 
meadows. Immediately after it veered, it circled toward 
the west and mounted higher. After proceeding about a 
mile in that direction, it turned again and headed east¬ 
ward, gliding lightly and gracefully downward, in the 
manner of an albatross as it sinks to the surface of the 
sea. 

As the high, muddy bank of the creek hid from his 
view the final stage of the seaplane’s descent, Canbeck fell 
to speculating on the purpose of the airman in bringing 
down his craft at such a time and place. The creek in 
which he had spent the day emptied into the bay at a point 
scarcely more than two hundred yards from where he 
now sat in his sneak-boat, and it was apparent that it was 
just beyond the mouth of the creek that the flying-boat 
had come to water. But from that direction there now 
came no sound. 

The impulse to seek some point from which the move¬ 
ments of the seaplane might be viewed was so slight that 
Canbeck quickly smothered it. He lighted his pipe, smoked 
reflectively for several minutes, then addressed himself to 
the task of taking in his decoys. He was thus engaged 
when a succession of clattering, explosive sounds, near 
the mouth of the creek, indicated that the motors of the 
seaplane again were in action. 

Nearly three minutes passed, however, before the flying- 
boat became visible to the eyes of the watching duck- 
hunter. Now, once more clear of the bay, it was headed 
seaward. Higher and higher it mounted toward the 
darkening sky, then, turning, it took a westerly course. 

Canbeck still was watching the retreating plane when 
his attention was attracted by the quacking of frightened 


6 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


ducks. He promptly crouched, picked up his gun and 
raised its muzzle. A few moments later he discharged 
both barrels and three ducks, out of a flock of a dozen, 
dropped into the stream. He was preparing to paddle 
out to gather in the dead wildfowl when a quiet voice 
near him caused him to start and turn abruptly. 

“I beg your pardon, but will you tell me whether it 
will be possible for me to get to a railway station to¬ 
night ?” 

The soft, well-modulated voice was that of a woman, 
who stood on the bank near the sneak-boat. The duck- 
hunter, frowning, looked at the speaker with astonish¬ 
ment. Habitually morose, he had as little liking for 
women as they had for him, but in the aspect of this 
one there was something that fairly startled him. Had 
he seen her in a ballroom, in the lobby of a hotel, behind 
the footlights of a stage or on the deck of a transatlantic 
liner, she would have held his gaze for a few moments, 
then he would have passed on, phlegmatically admitting 
to himself that she was the most beautiful woman he had 
ever seen, but would have given no more thought to her. 

In this environment, however, the rare beauty of this 
stranger affected him strangely, and the thrill that passed 
through him was of the sort that may come to a man 
in the presence of the supernatural. He promptly com¬ 
bated and conquered the awe with which she inspired him, 
but he never could have described her. More soberly 
appraising her, Canbeck saw the speaker was young, 
rather above the average height of her sex, with a 
straight, admirably proportioned figure, a matchless com¬ 
plexion, black hair and dark eyes that had the lustre of 
moonlighted waters. Her hair was disordered, however, 
and her gray Tam-’o-Shanter was a little askew. She 
wore a neatly fitting tailor-made gown of heavy gray 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


7 


cloth, and the protection afforded by the jacket of this was 
supplemented by a plaid golf cape. Her stockings and 
high shoes were spattered with mud. 

For several moments the duckhunter stared vacantly 
at the young woman who had hailed him. She repeated 
her question: 

“Can you tell me if it will be possible for me to get to a 
railway to-night?” 

“How, in Heaven's name, did you get out here?” Can- 
beck demanded. 

“I came in the seaplane,” the young woman replied, and 
now there was a note of sharpness in her voice. 

The duckhunter, turning deliberately, gazed thought¬ 
fully toward where the flying-boat appeared to be scarcely 
larger than an eagle in the distance. 

“The devil you did!” he muttered; then, in a louder 
voice, he asked: “Why did it leave you in such a place as 
this?” 

“Frankly, I do not know. I was compelled to alight, 
however.” 

“Compelled!” Canbeck exclaimed. “Am I to under¬ 
stand that you were left here against your will?” 

“It is scarcely such a place as a woman would select to 
pass the night,” the fair stranger retorted, curtly. 

“You are right,” the duckhunter assented. “But how 
did it happen that—” 

“Pardon me if I remind you that I was the first to ask 
a question and that it still is unanswered,” interrupted the 
young woman, with some severity. “Will it be possible 
for me to get to a railway station at which I can get a 
train for New York to-night?” 

“I am very much afraid it will not be possible, 
madame,” Canbeck replied, with rather more politeness in 
his manner than had been apparent before. “It already is 


8 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


getting dark and the tide is ebbing. The nearest railway 
station is at Sellersville, which, in a direct line, is seven 
miles from here, but between the village and this spot are 
several creeks, so the meadows cannot be crossed on foot. 
In order to get there by my sloop we would have to leave 
this creek, go out into the bay and enter a long, winding 
creek which only a native can navigate after nightfall—a 
distance of about eleven miles. I am not a Long Islander 
and so am not competent to undertake the task.” 

The expression of distrust that had settled on the young 
woman’s features gradually disappeared while the duck- 
hunter was speaking. There was something in the aspect 
and voice of the speaker which encouraged the fair 
aeronaut in the belief that he was a man who could be 
trusted. When she first had met the gaze of that single 
eye she had been conscious of a feeling of creepiness and 
suddenly awakened fear. But, as Canbeck spoke, he 
looked away from her. His voice was deep, clear and 
deliberate, and, despite his rough garb, there was some¬ 
thing in the man that bespoke a certain degree of refine¬ 
ment. Being a young woman of quick perception, the fair 
stranger also recognized the fact that this man’s spirit of 
chivalry was rather more perfunctory than earnest—in 
short, that his aid would be offered as a result of a sense 
of duty rather than a sense of pleasure. She was only 
twenty-two and he was well past fifty, but she invol¬ 
untarily straightened her Tam-o’-Shanter and glanced 
ruefully at the mud on her skirt and cape. 

“Is that the boat to which you refer?” she asked, as 
Canbeck paused. 

“Oh, bless you, no! This is only a sneaker. The boat 
I speak of is that little sloop over yonder. There’s a cabin 
on her, with a couple of bunks and a stove. The center- 
board trunk divides the cabin, and a piece of tarpaulin will 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


9 


make a couple of rooms of it, with a bunk in each. I can 
get a hot supper, if you like, and you can turn in afterward 
on your side of the tarpaulin and centerboard. As soon 
as the sun is up I’ll get you to Sellersville.” 

An expression of vexation settled on the young 
woman’s face and she compressed her lips slightly. 

“You have nothing to do, then, with the canal-boat?” 
she asked. 

“With the canal-boat!” Canbeck repeated wonderingly. 

“Yes—it is a canal-boat, isn’t it? Or is it a barge?” 

“I am afraid I do not understand you,” replied the 
duckhunter. 

The young woman frowned impatiently. 

“I mean the boat that is lying in the other creek,” she 
said. 

“I did not know that there was a boat of any kind in 
the other creek,” Canbeck explained. 

Once more the young woman was looking at him 
searchingly, and, as she looked, distrust again entered her 
eyes. 

“How long have you been here—here in this creek?” 
she asked. 

“I entered it from the bay about seven o’clock this 
morning, but I saw no boat in the other creek.” 

She looked over her shoulder. 

“True,” she said, “one cannot see it from here. It does 
not show above the bank and the meadow grass. There 
is a canal-boat there, however, and, while I was in that 
miserable seaplane I saw smoke issuing from the stovepipe 
on the roof of the deck-house.” 

“Ah!” exclaimed the duckhunter, and the expression of 
relief on his features was unmistakable. “Most canal- 
boats have the families of their captains on board, so we 
may be able to find a woman on this, and a woman 


10 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


doubtless can make you more comfortable than I can. We 
will see.” 

“You will go with me?” 

“Certainly—if you will permit me to do so. It is better, 
perhaps, that you should not go alone.” 

Canbeck drew in his decoys; then he paddled his boat 
to the bank. 

“Shall I take your gun?” the young woman asked, as 
the duckhunter prepared to disembark from his craft. 

“If you will, please.” 

The manner in which she took the weapon from his 
hand indicated that firearms were not strange to her. 

“The ducks you shot are drifting downstream,” she 
said, suggestively. 

“I can spare them. I did pretty well this morning.” 

Canbeck threw on the bank the big stone that did service 
as an anchor, then, taking his gun from the small, gloved 
hands that held it, he led the way over the spongy surface 
of the meadow toward the neighboring creek. 

As the young woman followed her conductor, she saw 
that his shoulders were broad and square and that his 
thick-set figure was singularly erect. Then, too, there 
was something in the precision of his steps that suggested 
that there had been a period in his life during which he 
had carried arms for purposes other than shooting ducks. 

“An army man, and probably a West Pointer,” she 
murmured. 

They had only about three hundred yards to go and the 
distance soon was covered. When they arrived at the 
creek, the duckhunter saw that the young woman had 
spoken truly. There was a long, broad, black barge lying 
beside the bank of the creek—a creek scarcely more than 
three times the width of the boat itself. From the stove- 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 11 


pipe on the roof of the deckhouse a thin cloud of smoke 
was issuing. 

The port rail of the boat was against, and some three 
feet below, the bank. The duckhunter stepped aboard, 
and, grasping a rough wooden stool, he placed it in such 
a position that his companion could step on it from the 
bank above. This done, he extended her a hand and 
helped her aboard. 

Without speaking, Canbeck led the way to the door of 
the deckhouse at the stern. This was closed, and he 
knocked. To the knock there was no reply. Canbeck 
grasped the knob and thrust the door open cautiously. 

The duckhunter now found himself in a dingy, un¬ 
painted cabin which was manifestly a storeroom. It was 
about twelve feet wide and fourteen long, and was filled 
with barrels and wooden cases which, it was plain, con¬ 
tained provisions. At the forward end appeared the head 
of a companionway. To the left, rising from the floor to 
the roof, was the pipe whose top had been seen from 
without. 

“Queer barge—this!” he muttered. “They are doing 
their cooking below.” 

He drew a thick, stubby wooden pipe from his pocket 
and with this he rapped sharply several times on the door 
at the foot of the companionway. This summons also 
failed to elicit an answer. Finding that this door, too, 
was unlocked, Canbeck pushed it open. The fair aeronaut, 
standing on the steps behind him, saw him stop suddenly 
as an exclamation of amazement fell from his lips. 

From the half-open door came a flood of mellow light 
and an odor which was suggestive of that which permeates 
the atmosphere of cathedrals after the celebration of a 
mass—the odor which emanates from swinging censers 
borne by priests. 


12 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


“You had better wait there,” said the duckhunter in a 
low voice, as, moving back a step, he glanced over his 
shoulder at his companion. 

But the aeronaut was a woman, and so it came to pass 
that when the duckhunter, having entered the apartment, 
heard the door close behind him with a soft click, he 
found his companion was beside him. 

“Why did you not stay outside?” the duckhunter 
demanded sharply. 

The young woman, looking around her with wide, 
staring eyes, gave no heed to his question. 

“In the name of all that is wonderful—” she began. 

With a shrug of impatience, the duckhunter turned to 
the door and grasped the knob. 

“They’ve locked us in!” he muttered. 

She heard him now. 

“Locked us in!” she exclaimed with sudden appre¬ 
hension. “Who do you mean by ‘they’ ?” 

“How should I know? But come—let’s get away from 
this door.” 

Grasping the young woman roughly by one of her 
arms, Canbeck led her a few paces to the left. 

“Keep your back to this wall and your eyes on the 
curtains at the other end of the room,” he cautioned in a 
low voice. 

The first part of his advice she heeded, the second she 
ignored, for the spectacle which now offered itself to her 
view was so extraordinary that her curiosity exceeded her 
fears. 

The apartment was about thirty-five feet in length, 
twenty in breadth and ten in height. The walls were 
covered with rich crimson damask and those on the sides 
were pierced by niches of polished black wood—there 
being twelve niches in all. In each niche was a statue 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


13 


wrought in gleaming white marble. Though these statues 
represented different subjects, all possessed two remark¬ 
able features in common. Each represented a human 
figure, which, like many of the sculptures of Auguste 
Rodin, was only partly hewn from the rough block. In 
no instance, however, was the face of the statue revealed, 
each being hidden in a manner that differed from the 
others. The features of one female figure were covered 
with the hands, while those of a second were obscured by 
a veil. The form of a tense-muscled man appeared to be 
struggling to free itself from the rough block from which 
it was hewn with great perfection of detail, but the head, 
thrown backward, was still a part of the block and only a 
few outlines of the face were even faintly perceptible. 
Other faces were hidden by falling, dishevelled hair, 
behind masks or within the closed visors of helmets. 

At the further end of the apartment was a broad door¬ 
way which was approached by three wide, carpet-covered 
steps. On each side of these steps, on a low pedestal, was 
a full suit of armor. Each right gauntlet grasped an 
upright lance and the raised visors of the helmets revealed 
the hideous faces of grinning skulls. In the doorway 
hung a pair of heavy velvet curtains of the same color as 
the damask-covered walls, and, on each side of the door¬ 
way, niches in the wall held large Etruscan vases. The 
apartment was lighted by numerous candelabra set in the 
walls between the niches. 

The floor was covered with a large Oriental rug of 
which the prevailing colors were red, black and yellow. 
The carved ceiling was black, with a curious mosaic 
centerpiece from which depended a heavy bronze chain 
that sustained a large and elaborately wrought lamp of 
Arabesque design. The lamp hung over the center of a 
table about ten feet long and six feet wide—a table with 


14 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


appointments scarcely less remarkable than the room in 
which it had a place. A snowy cloth, hanging low over 
the sides and ends of this concealed its wood and carvings, 
but on the cloth were crystal and gold and silverware 
befitting a feast of royalty. 

The table was laid for ten persons, there being four 
chairs at each side and one at each end. The chairs were 
of carved ebony, with arms, the seats and backs being 
covered with heavy Japanese brocade of black and gold. 
Other chairs of similar design stood against the wall, as 
did also several ottomans that were covered with costly 
skins and rugs. 

As the duckhunter, still grasping his fowling-piece and 
looking around him, moved forward a couple of paces, he 
saw an upright sarcophagus, with the cover removed. 
Within the sarcophagus was the gilded cartonnage of a 
mummy, and the face painted on this was the only repre¬ 
sentation of normal human features among the figures in 
the room. The sarcophagus stood midway between two 
doors—one of these being the door through which Can- 
beck and his companion had entered. The duckhunter 
inferred that the second door communicated with the 
room containing the stove from which rose the pipe that 
passed through the deckhouse to its roof. 

“What does it all mean?” asked the young woman, in a 
voice that was scarcely louder than a whisper. 

“It may mean much or little,” the duckhunter muttered. 
“No one but a lunatic would fit up a barge like this and 
have it towed out here. If there is only one of his class 
aboard we probably shall have little difficulty in getting 
out, but—well, the table is laid for ten.” 

The young woman, gazing around her with wondering 
eyes, murmured: 

“It looks like some of those strange places—those 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 15 


cabarets in Montmartre, in Paris—the Chat Noir, the 
House of Death and-” 

“It will look many other things as well if I am com¬ 
pelled to let these two barrels go,” growled the duck- 
hunter, as, passing a hand under his coat, he reached for 
a couple of “Double B” shells. 

The words were scarcely spoken, however, when 
Canbeck and the young woman started suddenly. 

From the other end of the room came the sound of a 
low, chuckling laugh. The curtains in the doorway shook 
for a moment, then they were slowly thrust aside and the 
figure of a tall man in evening dress appeared between 
them. 

The hair of the newcomer was white, but his dark- 
skinned, clean-shaven face was devoid of wrinkles, and 
his gray eyes were as clear and shining as those of a youth. 
His head was admirably shaped, but was scarcely as large 
as is usual in the case of men of such large stature. His 
limbs were long, and he stooped slightly, but there was a 
grace and courtliness in his bearing which indicated that 
he was as well endowed with drawing-room accomplish¬ 
ments as he was with physical strength. As he looked 
down now at the duckhunter, his thin lips were smiling. 
There was a mocking, penetrating and unfathomable 
expression in his gray eyes. 

“If you must shoot, my friend, let us have one barrel at 
a time,” he said. 

Thus speaking, he descended the three steps in front of 
the doorway. 

Canbeck and his companion fairly gasped for breath. 
The man who so suddenly had confronted them was a 
familiar figure on two continents—in fashionable clubs, 
in boxes at the opera, at race meetings, at public dinners 
and in the councils of princes of finance. Neither of the 



16 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


persons whom he now was approaching had met him, but 
his portrait had appeared so often in illustrated journals 
that his features were as familiar to schoolboys through¬ 
out the land as was the face of the nation’s President. In 
short, the newcomer was none other than Hewitt Westfall, 
the multimillionaire. 

Fixing his gaze on the duckhunter, Westfall, still 
smiling, added: 

“We had been expecting you to dinner, Colonel Can- 
beck. I was only awaiting the arrival of a boat, which 
should be here in a few minutes, in order to visit you and 
ask you to join our party this evening. But, thanks to 
the appearance of the seaplane and your gallantry, such a 
visit has been made unnecessary.” 

Frowning slightly, Canbeck regarded the speaker 
searchingly. 

“You were expecting me to dinner—here—to-day?” he 
exclaimed incredulously. 

“Yes,” replied the millionaire, easily. “And the fact 
that you come as escort to our guest of honor makes you 
doubly welcome.” 

Nodding genially, Westfall now turned to Canbeck’s 
wondering companion. 

“Your highness-” he began. 

The young woman started violently, and, as the color 
left her features, she gazed with widening, frightened 
eyes at the man who thus addressed her. 

“Highness!” she murmured in a low, trembling voice. 

As if oblivious of the consternation with which he 
had inspired her, Westfall approached, and, taking her 
hands, said gravely: 

“And now, your highness, permit an honored and 
appreciative host—Hewitt Westfall—to welcome the 
Princess Maranotti to the Barge of Haunted Lives, on 



THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 17 


which it will be his pleasure to present to you certain 
persons who have been victims of some of the most 
remarkable misadventures that ever have fallen to the 
lot of men. Most of these persons are unknown to you, 
and even they have yet to learn that their strange lives 
have taken color from your own.” 

A little cry of astonishment and pain escaped the young 
woman’s lips, and there was a wild look in her eyes as, 
withdrawing her hands from those of Westfall, she 
glanced furtively towards the door through which she 
had entered the apartment. Westfall gently laid a hand 
on one of her shoulders. 

“Have no fear, your highness,” he said kindly. 
“Among the persons of whom I have spoken there is 
none who willingly would cause you pain. All are here 
in an attempt to lead you from that spectre-peopled wood 
in which, for the last three years, you have been groping 
blindly. When we are done, you will have no reason 
to reproach me for the visit I have caused you to make 
to the Barge of Haunted Lives.” 


i 


CHAPTER II 

AT DESTINY’S CROSSROADS 

‘‘And what is the Barge of Haunted Lives?” asked 
the duckhunter, sharply. 

Westfall, looking thoughtfully at the floor, replied: 

‘‘Well, Canbeck, it’s the product of a hobby—the hobby 
of one who, for many years, has found diversion in the 
study of the strange fates that befall mankind. It is a 
vessel as clumsy, ugly and as helpless on the waves as are 
the barks which bear most men on the stormy sea of 
Destiny. It is moved from place to place by a tugboat— 
one of those inconsequential craft, which, while unable to 
make long, stormy and romantic voyages themselves, 
often are in a position to lend helping hands to great 
vessels which can do these things if they only get into 
proper channels. The tug gets them there, and, in this 
respect, I am a great deal like the tug. When I find a 
brother craft, enveloped in a fog and drifting toward 
the reef of error, I throw him a line and tow him out. 
But I am no hypocrite, so I will confess that only a cer¬ 
tain class of sufferers finds it possible to excite my inter¬ 
est—the class which consists of men and women of 
haunted lives.” 

“Ah, I see,” exclaimed the duckhunter, moodily. “You 
find diversion in the unravelling of other men’s mys¬ 
teries.” 

“No. I simply afford them certain facilities for unrav¬ 
elling such mysteries themselves.” 

18 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 19 


“It’s a queer sort of place you give to them in which 
to do it,” growled the duckhunter, looking around dubi¬ 
ously. 

Westfall laughed quietly. 

“It suffices,” he said, resignedly. “And, after all, it 
is doubtful whether a more appropriate scene for such 
endeavors may be found. Everything you see around 
you came here as a result of tales that have been told 
beneath this roof.” 

“Those statues without faces?” queried the duck- 
hunter. 

“Everything. I first saw this barge when I was sum¬ 
moned to it one night to bid a last farewell to a man who, 
years before, had been one of my most intimate friends. 
In consequence of an unfortunate act, he became a fugi¬ 
tive—a pariah. When I reached his side he was dying— 
the worst example of a haunted life I have ever known. 
In respect to his memory I bought the barge and fitted 
it up as a place of refuge for persons who might be flee¬ 
ing from ghosts of their misdeeds or misfortunes. It has 
had many interesting visitors, I assure you.” 

His eyes had wandered to the aeronaut again, and, paus¬ 
ing in his speech, he continued to gaze at her thought¬ 
fully. Then, rousing himself suddenly, he laid a hand on 
one of the shoulders of the duckhunter. 

“And so, my dear Canbeck, you don’t like my statues,” 
he said. 

The duckhunter shook his head. 

“I’m no judge of art, I’m afraid,” he answered surlily. 

“Well, some excellent judges have expressed rather 
favorable opinions on these same marbles,” Westfall 
replied. “I had them from the sculptor himself—a queer 
fellow, who was the victim of one of the strangest mis¬ 
fortunes I ever have known. During the last five years 


20 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


of his life, this man, who had attained many artistic 
triumphs before, dared not carve a human face. In every 
block of marble there was a face that haunted him, and, 
strive as he would, he could carve no other. It mattered 
not whether his model was man or woman, maiden or 
boy, the face that always haunted him invariably took 
form under his chisel. And so, at last, it came to pass 
that he carved only such statues as you see about you 
now.” 

“What became of him?” the matter-of-fact duckhunter 
asked. 

Westfall shrugged his shoulders slightly, and an enig¬ 
matical smile played for a moment on his lips. 

“It was from another guest of the Barge of Haunted 
Lives that I obtained the two skulls which you see in 
these suits of armor,” he went on. “The man was a 
Frenchman, and among his ancestors was one of those 
vandals who, during the French Revolution, entered the 
church of St. Denis and, opening the tombs of the old 
French kings, used royal bones as playthings for a while, 
and then threw them into a ditch. This ancestor pre¬ 
served these skulls which, years before, had worn the 
crown of France. One is said to be that of Henry of 
Navarre, and the other that of Louis the XI. It was a 
strange fate that had awaited them all those years, was 
it not? Above one of these skulls fluttered the famous 
white plume that led the embattled Huguenots to victory 
at Ivry. In the other were evolved designs almost Napo¬ 
leonic in their magnitude—designs that made France the 
greatest world power of that period, and also caused the 
French capital to become the centre of the intellectual life 
of Europe. The brain is gone, but the case belongs to 
me. The memories of those days at St. Denis so haunted 
the descendant of the vandal that, at last, in return for a 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 21 


small service, the last of the unhappy race gave the two 
deathheads to me.” 

The young woman was staring, with wide, horror- 
stricken eyes, at the deathheads. 

“But the armor—surely those suits did not belong—” 
Canbeck began. 

“No,” said Westfall, “they were not worn by kings. 
There was a skeleton in each when both were found 
walled up in a niche in an old English castle that was 
said to have been haunted. The suits belonged to the 
period of the fifth Henry.” 

The single, searching eye of the duckhunter was gazing 
now at the sarcophagus. 

“That,” said Westfall, “contains the body of the Prin¬ 
cess Tushepu, of the Twentieth Dynasty, who died more 
than twelve hundred years before Christ. It and the 
rug—but, enough of this. You will be here for two or 
three days, and I will relate their stories when you have 
more leisure to listen to them.” 

“Two or three days!” exclaimed the duckhunter, 
scowling. “I’m afraid, sir-” 

“Possibly four,” added Westfall, thoughtfully. 

And now the fair aeronaut spoke. 

“You have said that it was your wish that I should 
meet at this table certain persons in whose history I am 
especially interested,” she said. “Might I ask you to tell 
me who these persons are?” 

“They are those with whom some of the most impor¬ 
tant events of your life are identified, your highness,” 
Westfall replied, respectfully. “Singularly enough, how¬ 
ever, you have met only three of them before.” 

“But I must know the names of those three,” the 
young woman persisted, as the millionaire paused. 



22 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


“I beg of you to excuse me from revealing their names 
until you have seen them. 1 ’ 

The young woman turned to the duckhunter. 

“Am I right in assuming that I am under your protec¬ 
tion, Colonel Canbeck?” she asked. 

“Perfectly/’ replied the duckhunter, composedly. 

“Then,” said the young woman, “I will ask you to take 
me from this boat.” 

The duckhunter turned to Westfall. 

“You have my reason, sir, for now wishing you good¬ 
night,” he said gravely. 

Westfall, taking out his watch, glanced at it and 
laughed quietly. 

“Not so fast—not so fast, Colonel,” he replied, easily. 
“If this lady suspected how intimately you are related to 
her history, and the part that you have played therein, you 
would be one of the last persons in the world to whom 
she would go for protection.” 

The face of the duckhunter grew pale with anger. 

“Do you mean, sir, that I am not to be trusted— 
that I-” 

“Oh, no, I do not mean that, but there is an episode 
in your life, which, being of the greatest importance to 
her, it is best for her to hear explained before she accepts 
any favor at your hands.” 

“You are talking like a madman,” exclaimed the duck¬ 
hunter, angrily. “This lady and I never have met before, 
and there is nothing in my life that possibly could have 
any effect on hers, or in her life that could have affected 
mine. And, if there was, it would constitute no mystery 
that would be an appropriate subject for one of your 
busybody councils on this fool craft that you call the 
Barge of Haunted Lives.” 

“You are sure, then, that you are not in that category— 



THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 23 


in short, that the memory of no deed of yours has haunted 
you—that, when you sit out yonder watching for wild¬ 
fowl, it never enters your thoughts?” asked Westfall. 

An ashen pallor overspread the face of the duckhunter, 
and there was an expression of apprehension in the eye 
that was turned to his questioner. 

“No—unless-” he faltered. 

Westfall nodded carelessly. 

“Yes—that’s it,” he said. 

With a low, half-smothered groan, Canbeck, still grasp¬ 
ing his fowling-piece, turned toward the door. 

“Stop,” said the young woman, quietly. 

The duckhunter halted, and, as he hesitated, the fair 
aeronaut saw that his head was bowed and that there 
was a strange, dull glare in the eye which gazed at the 
floor. 

“You are fortunate, Colonel Canbeck, for it would 
seem that from your past there comes only one spectre 
to haunt you,” the young woman went on. “I am less 
favored, for I am the victim of many. For months I 
have been trying to evade them, but they follow me every¬ 
where. Thus far, however, I have been able to identify 
all, but now Mr. Westfall, apparently interesting himself 
in my unfortunate history, seems to have found another 
one. Pray let him explain to us why it is that you and 
I, who have never met before, must regard each other as 
enemies.” 

“Come, come, let us all understand one another better,” 
said Westfall, with some impatience. “As you see, the 
table has been laid for ten. An hour hence eight men— 
including you, Canbeck—will sit down together. The 
ninth place, which, from the first, was intended for you, 
Madame, will remain vacant until the meal is finished. 
Then, you, madame, having been served elsewhere, and 



24 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


veiled in such a manner that you will not be recognized, 
will enter this room and take the seat reserved for you. 

“Of the men present I will be the only one who is not 
personally identified with your strange history, and among 
the others there are only two who have met before to-day. 
Your extraordinary misfortunes are known to me, and 
during the nights which these men will spend on this 
barge, each of them will tell a story. Some of these 
stories will be scarcely less wonderful than those said to 
have been related by Scheherezade to the Sultan of the 
Indies, but you will find that all their adventures have 
direct connection with your own. 

“In this room I have heard many remarkable narra¬ 
tives and the analogy of some of them to the stories told 
by Scheherezade has led me to call them my American 
Nights Entertainments, but I may safely say that the 
series which will begin to-night promises to be by far 
the most wonderful of all, for a remarkable fatality 
seems to have invested with an almost independent inter¬ 
est all the persons who, either directly or indirectly, have 
had to do with those concerned with the mystery of the 
Rajiid Buddha.” 

The young woman gave utterance to a little cry, and 
exclaimed: 

“The Rajiid Buddha! In Heaven’s name is that the 
man—the man who-” 

She paused suddenly and darted a quick, searching 
glance toward Canbeck. 

“I know nothing of a Rajiid Buddha,” the duckhunter 
explained. 

“But you have been in India?” the young woman asked, 
with feverish haste. 

“Never, madame—never in my life,” the duckhunter 
answered gravely. 



THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 25 


‘‘Colonel Canbeck knows even less of the Rajiid adven¬ 
ture than you do, madame,” Westfall explained. 

“But you—you do know something of it, then?” the 
fair aeronaut asked, and, as she spoke, her color came 
and went. 

“The narrative of that adenture is one of those which 
will be recounted to you, if you will consent to occupy 
the place which has been provided for you at the table 
to-night,” Westfall answered. “I can promise you that 
you will find the other narratives quite as interesting.” 

“I will stay,” the fair aeronaut murmured faintly. 

“And you, Colonel?” queried Westfall, addressing the 
duckhunter. 

“It is quite unnecessary,” said Canbeck in a low, uncer¬ 
tain voice. 

“On the contrary, the story that you have to tell is one 
of the most important of all, for, loth as you may be to 
tell it, its narration has much to do toward defining this 
lady’s future position in the world. You will, of course, 
exercise your own judgment in the matter. When, how¬ 
ever, you have heard something of the history of the 
principals in this extraordinary affair, you will appreciate 
how much depends on a revelation of the facts which 
are in your possession. You will require no one then to 
urge you to speak. Until you make yourself known vol¬ 
untarily, no one will suspect your secret, and I think I 
may assure you that, when you have told your story, the 
face that has haunted you will trouble you no more.” 

Canbeck shrugged his shoulders resignedly. 

“Well, have it so then,” he muttered. Then, after a 
pause, he added: “But, since you find it so easy to invite 
the confidence of others, perhaps you will not mind telling 
us how you found me out—how it comes to pass that 
this theatrical-looking barge of yours attracts to it so 


26 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


many men and women of haunted lives who are willing 
to tell you their troubles for your diversion.” 

“They do not come here until I send for them, my dear 
Colonel,” Westfall answered, calmly. “As I have told 
you, persons of this sort always have interested me, but 
of this interest they are not aware until I tell them of it. 
My hobby is known, however, to several noted alienists, 
wardens of penitentiaries, and to city and private detec¬ 
tives in this country and abroad. From these, from time 
to time, I receive reports of strange cases to which their 
attention has been directed. When one of these cases ex¬ 
cites my interest, I get the principals down to the Barge of 
Haunted Lives and, after listening to their stories, I do 
all that lies within my power to aid the unfortunate nar¬ 
rators. In this manner the expenses incident to the clear¬ 
ing up of mysteries have constituted the price I pay for a 
form of diversion which harms no man who yields it to 
me. In these matters my curiosity is never idle, but I 
never betray confidence, even though the man from whom 
I win it is a hardened, death-deserving criminal.” 

“Humph!” Canbeck muttered. “Well, you’ve run me 
down, and that proves your ability so far as others are 
concerned, I suppose. But why have you had your barge 
towed away out here to this forsaken place?” 

“Owing to the number of my guests, and certain perils 
which threaten some of them, I thought it best to keep as 
well away from the city as possible while they should be 
aboard,” Westfall explained. “While I was still unde¬ 
cided as to where I should send the barge, I learned that 
you, one of the men I sought, had arranged to come down 
here on your annual visit to the shooting grounds. Accord¬ 
ingly, I had the barge towed in here last night. The tug 
that brought it was out of Great South Bay by dawn, so 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 27 


you did not see it when you came out from Sellersville 
this morning.” 

“Well, these shooting things are all I have to wear out 
here,” said Canbeck, apologetically. 

“More conventional garments await you in the room 
which has been appropriated to your use,” replied West- 
fall, laughingly. 

As he spoke, the millionaire crossed to one of the walls 
and pressed an electric button. In response to the sum¬ 
mons a young man in brown livery appeared between the 
curtain under which Westfall had entered the room. 

“Driggs, take the Duckhunter to his quarters, and bid 
Harvette report to this lady,” said Westfall. Then turn¬ 
ing to Canbeck, he added smilingly: “It is a custom on 
this barge to give no guest a name in the presence of 
others until such a time as it may please him to reveal it 
himself. For this reason, each bears a title that is sug¬ 
gested either by his story or some personal characteristic. 
Accordingly, while you are known as the Duckhunter, 
the identity of this lady will be protected by the sobriquet 
of the Veiled Aeronaut. Among the guests whom you 
will meet will be the Whispering Gentleman, the Nervous 
Physician, the Homicidal Professor and the Hypochon¬ 
driacal Painter. Each you see is-” 

“And you tell me that the persons who have suggested 
these horrible designations have, unknown to me, played 
important parts in the miserable drama of my life?” 
demanded the aeronaut, breathlessly. 

“Yes,” Westfall replied, “and, since these appellations 
have alarmed you, perhaps it is better that I should not 
name the others, but I assure you that there is not one 
among them who bears you any ill will.” 

“Who is this Harvette you are sending to me?” asked 
the young woman, suspiciously. 



28 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


“A middle-aged Frenchwoman, who, being on the barge 
for such emergencies as this, will be wholly at your 
service, madame, while you are aboard.” 

Canbeck, following Driggs, the liveried servant, bowed 
gravely to the aeronaut and then disappeared behind the 
curtains. A few moments later a pleasant-faced, matronly 
woman, clad in black, appeared and led the young woman 
to a dainty little stateroom which was so well appointed 
that, despite her forebodings of evil, the visitor was 
conscious of a thrill of satisfaction. This, at least, was 
a happier fate than had been indicated while she was con¬ 
fronted by the prospect of a bunk in the Duckhunter’s 
disreputable-looking sloop. 

When Canbeck returned to the saloon in which he first 
had encountered Westfall, a marvellous change in his 
appearance had been effected. Shaved, attired in evening 
dress and with carefully brushed hair, he bore himself as 
easily as Westfall, and had the aspect of a well-groomed 
man of the world. But the gloom that had settled on his 
face nearly an hour before was not to be dissipated by the 
cheerful greeting of his host. 

“Well, Colonel, my yacht is in the bay, and one of her 
boats has just brought the other members of our com¬ 
pany aboard the barge,” Westfall said. “They will be in 
presently, and dinner soon will be served.” 

Passing a hand nervously over his face, the Duck- 
hunter nodded, but made no verbal reply. 

They had not long to wait, for soon the sounds of sub¬ 
dued voices were heard outside the curtains, and Can- 
beck’s single, greenish-yellow eye, became suggestive of 
a searchlight. 

“There will be no introductions,” said Westfall, speak¬ 
ing quietly. “I will indicate our friends as they come in, 
however.” 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


29 


Between the curtains there now appeared a figure that 
caused the Duckhunter, strong-nerved as he was, to stiffen 
suddenly and contract his brows. It was the figure of 
an admirably proportioned man, a little under six feet 
in height. He carried himself gracefully, but his face 
seemed to constitute a veritable caricature of human 
physiognomy. 

Though his head was well-shaped, his features were 
so strikingly demoniacal that it was impossible to look 
upon them without sensations of horror and fear. The 
lean, triangular face was partly covered by a close- 
cropped, double-pointed beard which, with a small mous¬ 
tache, failed to disguise the effects produced on the visage 
by a wide, high-cornered, pointed-lipped mouth, which, 
even in repose, constantly was expressive of sardonic 
humor. In singular contrast with this expression was one 
of suppressed pain which, burning in his large, dark eyes, 
seemed ever to belie the sinister and unearthly smile that 
was always present on his lips. Though this singular 
guest appeared to be no more than thirty or thirty-two 
years of age, his thick, rebellious black hair was well 
sprinkled with gray. 

“The Sentimental Gargoyle—with the Fugitive Bride¬ 
groom just behind him,” said Westfall, explanatorily. 

As the Gargoyle descended the steps and the guest 
behind him stood revealed, the Duckhunter saw a man, 
apparently about thirty-five years old, whose appearance 
offered a striking contrast with that of the guest who 
preceded him. Tall, and distinctly handsome, his thought¬ 
ful features bespoke a mind ill at ease. His brow was 
contracted, and he flashed toward the Duckhunter a stern, 
challenging glance which caused Canbeck to believe that 
the newcomer suspected him of being an enemy. 

“The Nervous Physician,” said Westfall, as a short, 


30 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


thick-set, gray-bearded man, with a quick, fidgety man¬ 
ner, came down the steps. 

“The Hypochondriacal Painter and the Whispering 
Gentleman,” Westfall went on. 

The first mentioned of these was a tall, emaciated man, 
past the prime of life, with long, patriarchal white hair 
and beard. His brow was high and unwrinkled, but on it, 
and in the large dark eyes below, was an expression of 
the most profound melancholy that the Duckhunter ever 
had seen on a human face. Beside the Hypochondriacal 
Painter walked a man of medium height, with white hair 
and furtive gray eyes. The skin of his hands and clean¬ 
shaven face had a peculiar copper-colored hue. He 
glanced sharply at the Duckhunter to whom he nodded 
curtly, then, having traversed the full length of the 
apartment with quick, nervous steps, he drew out a pair 
of eyeglasses and, holding these to his nose, he calmly 
proceeded to study the hieroglyphics which were inscribed 
on the cartonnage covering the body of the Egyptian 
princess. 

“The Homicidal Professor,” Westfall whispered. 

The Duckhunter, whose eye had been following the 
movements of the Whispering Gentleman, again turned 
toward the curtained doorway through which a stalwart¬ 
looking man, about thirty years of age, was passing. In 
the dark, brooding face and small, curled moustache of 
the newcomer there was something which caused the 
Duckhunter to suspect that he was either a Greek or an 
Italian. The low, deferential bow with which he saluted 
the host seemed to confirm this suspicion. 

All the guests were attired in full evening dress, and, 
with the single exception of the Whispering Gentleman, 
all appeared to be too much engrossed in serious reflec- 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 31 


tions to manifest any interest in their extraordinary 
environment. 

“Well, gentlemen, shall we be seated?” asked West- 
fall, cheerfully. 

“Are we all here?” asked the Whispering Gentleman, 
in a loud, hoarse whisper. 

“There are two absentees, but these will not join us 
until the meal is finished,” Westfall explained, as he 
moved toward the head of the table. “Of these, one 
will occupy the seat at the foot of the table and the other 
will be on my right. A card at each plate will enable 
each of you to find the place to which I have taken the 
liberty of assigning you.” 

All then seated themselves and, while they were being 
served by Driggs, their host made several attempts to 
interest his guests in topics suggested by the news of the 
day. These efforts met with scant encouragement, how¬ 
ever. The Nervous Physician and the Whispering Gentle¬ 
man were the only persons to respond, the others being so 
occupied with their thoughts and the dishes set before 
them as to be oblivious to all else. 

At length the cigars were reached, and Driggs pro¬ 
ceeded to remove the last of the dishes. Then Westfall 
said: 

“Gentlemen, though the eighth member of our company, 
who is about to join us, is a member of the other sex, she 
has assured me that our cigars will not be offensive to her, 
so you are at perfect liberty to retain them. Driggs, ask 
the Veiled Aeronaut if she is prepared to join us now.” 

“The Veiled Aeronaut!” exclaimed the Gargoyle, 
starting. 

Westfall frowned, as he went on: 

“That is the name by which the eighth guest will be 
known to you, and our friend’s exclamation seems to 


32 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


make it necessary for me to repeat what I said when you 
arrived at the Barge. Neither by word nor by sign must 
any of us interrupt a speaker in the course of his narrative, 
nor, during the hours that intervene between our sessions, 
are we to discuss with one another the subjects which have 
to do with the histories that you have come here to relate. 
This is now thoroughly understood, I believe.” 

The silence that followed remained unbroken for sev¬ 
eral moments, then Westfall, who had turned towards the 
doorway, rose gravely. 

“My friends/’ he said, “the Veiled Aeronaut is now a 
member of our company.” 

Following the example of their host, the seven guests 
rose, and it would have been difficult to tell whether their 
action had been inspired by amazement or a sense of 
chivalry. In the doorway stood one of the most ex¬ 
traordinary figures they ever had seen. Apparently it was 
the figure of a woman, for the garments were feminine. 
Through the open front of a long, hanging-sleeved robe 
of gold and black brocade were visible a red silk waist and 
skirt. The head was enveloped in a heavy white veil 
which, falling to the shoulders of the wearer, completely 
concealed not only her features but the outlines of her 
head. 

For several moments the strange figure paused between 
the curtains. Then those who watched it curiously saw 
it sway and move as if it were about to retreat. Westfall, 
stepping quickly toward the veiled woman, offered her his 
arm. After a little further hesitation she accepted it, and 
permitted her host to lead her to the further end of the 
table where she sank listlessly into the chair that Driggs 
drew back for her. 

Exchanging covert, wondering glances, the other guests 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 33 


reseated themselves. Westfall, standing at the head of 
the table, addressed them. 

“My friends,” he said, “my purpose in causing you to 
assemble here has been to solve the mystery of a single 
life, but, in attempting to effect this solution, I have dis¬ 
covered that, supplementary to that mystery there are 
others in which each of you is individually interested. 
Into the greater mystery these individual adventures 
merge like streams in confluence with a mighty river. All 
become one at last. 

“In the course of my inquiries into the subject of 
haunted lives, I learned, a few months ago, of the case 
of a bridegroom who, on the very day of his wedding, 
became a fugitive under most extraordinary circum¬ 
stances. A secret investigation of this case led me 
through many strange fields to some of the most remark¬ 
able men I have ever known. With one exception, all 
these men are here, and though, looking around you, 
my friends, most of you see no face, except my own, 
that you can recollect having seen before you met to-day, 
all of you have been working out a common destiny. 
Even now, as I say this, you look at me incredulously. 

“The impression that I am exaggerating may be 
strengthened at first, perhaps, by the fact that the scenes 
of the first two tales are so far apart, and the characters 
so vastly different. However, it soon will be demon¬ 
strated that they bear the most intimate relationship. 
As we proceed, you will observe that the interest of all 
the adventures which will be described to you will focus 
on a single object. In the mysterious chain that has 
excited my wonder every link is a haunted life, and, as 
the adventure of the Fugitive Bridegroom constitutes the 
first link I found, it properly will be the first to be sub- 


34 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


mitted to your attention. With your permission, there¬ 
fore, he will relate it to you now.” 

As he finished speaking, Westfall bowed gravely toward 
the Fugitive Bridegroom, who, leaning with crossed arms 
on the table, forthwith began his narrative. 


CHAPTER III 


THE MYSTERY OF A DERELICT 

In describing the events which, in the course of only 
a few months, have transformed me from a care-free 
and prosperous young man of the world into a miserable 
creature whose very soul is pursued by the hounds of 
fear, I am now, for the first time, taking others into my 
confidence. Nor would I, even now, reveal the nature 
of my terrible adventures were it not for the feeble hope 
that among persons to whom my recital will be addressed 
there may be one who will aid me in my efforts to put 
to flight the spectres which, having mocked all my reason¬ 
ing faculties, have confronted me with one of the most 
terrifying aspects of Fatality. 

All men are more or less prone to superstition, and, 
being only an average man, I never have been entirely 
free from superstitious fancies. While I never refused 
to sit down to a table that was laid for thirteen guests, 
I never did so without misgivings and secretly reproach¬ 
ing my host for his lack of thoughtfulness. Like Dickens, 
I always felt more comfortable when I saw a new moon 
over my right shoulder than I would have been had it 
appeared over my left. Instinctively I avoided walking 
under a ladder, and I was loath to embark on a new 
business venture on a Friday. But I may say truthfully 
that such fancies were only half-defined and I was in¬ 
clined to mock them. 

I mention this fact because I want to make it clear 
that, despite the earlier impressions made upon my mind 

35 


36 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


by my misadventures, I have attempted conscientiously to 
convince myself that my experiences were the results of 
natural, rather than supernatural, causes. In the end I 
have succeeded, but this conviction, so far from affording 
me relief, has rendered me more miserable than I would 
be were I satisfied that the causes were of a supernatural 
character. 

My inclination to take a superstitious view of the in¬ 
cidents I am about to describe was due, I think, to the 
fact that they had to do with the sea. However strong 
may be a landsman's powers of analysis, awe clouds his 
faculties when he is called upon to fathom the mysteries 
of the ocean. He may see, but he cannot understand. 
He may recount, but it is beyond his power to explain. 
Natural phenomena which he contemplates on land may 
result in transient sensations of wonder or alarm, but 
when he encounters them upon the surging billows above 
the wreck-strewn floor of the sea his fears rise to the call 
of abnormal fancies. Bewildered by marvelous effects, he 
is prone to regard them as supernatural, rather than as 
the simple working of atmospheric and submarine forces. 

The son of a man of moderate wealth, I am a native 
of Philadelphia, and am now thirty years of age. My 
father died shortly before I took my degree at Harvard, 
and thus, when I was twenty-two years old, I found 
myself with an excellent education and a fortune that 
amounted to several hundred thousand dollars. Business 
interests, as well as social inclinations, eventually caused 
me to become a resident of New York City. There I 
joined several clubs and soon numbered among my ac¬ 
quaintances many well-known members of society. I 
remained unmarried, however, and most of my leisure was 
spent in the company of men who, like myself, were free 
from domestic ties. 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 37 


Among my friends there was none with whom I en¬ 
joyed closer relations than those which characterized my 
friendship with Arthur Tallier, a prosperous broker and 
an enthusisatic yachtsman, who had been one of my 
classmates at Harvard. When, therefore, he proposed 
a cruise to the Mediterranean and asked me to be one of 
the party I gladly accepted his invitation and so arranged 
my business affairs that I might spend several months 
abroad. 

Arrangements for the cruise soon were completed, and 
one sultry August morning Tallier’s steam yacht, the 
Powhatan, with a congenial company aboard, put to sea. 

For two days all went well, but on the morning of 
the third the Powhatan ran into a dense fog. This lifted 
a bit in the afternoon, but as evening approached it 
became almost impenetrable and a light rain began to 
fall. Soon after dinner most of the members of the 
party went to the smoking-room to play bridge. Having 
spent most of the day inside, however, and believing a 
little exercise would be conducive to a restful night, I 
donned my raincoat, and, accompanied by a physician 
who was one of Tallier’s guests, went for a stroll on 
deck. 

The sea was calm and a light rain was falling. Inas¬ 
much as we were in one of the steamship lanes, the yacht, 
proceeding blindly through darkness and fog, sounded 
her siren every few minutes. These blasts elicited no 
response. Apparently no other vessel was within the 
compass of their warning notes. 

After a brisk walk on the wet deck for about fifteen 
minutes, my companion and I, having had enough of 
the drizzly atmosphere, stepped into the wheelhouse. The 
captain was at the wheel, but was so strangely sullen 
that we soon abandoned our attempts to draw him into 


38 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


conversation. At length the doctor suggested that we 
join our fellow-voyagers in the smoking-room.. I as¬ 
sented, and we bade our inhospitable captain good night. 

I had just opened the door of the wheelhouse, pre¬ 
paratory to stepping down to the deck, when a terrific, 
crashing shock brought the yacht to a standstill so sud¬ 
denly that I lost my footing at the top of the wheelhouse 
steps. Falling, I grabbed a brass rail, but some unseen 
power seemed to wrench me loose and fling me to the 
deck. 

I tried to rise, but the effort was vain. As, succumb¬ 
ing to a great numbness, I sank back weakly, I seemed 
to be lying on a white-padded floor, with a cluster of 
arc lights dazzling my eyes with their glare. Hoarse 
shouts of men and shrill cries of women filled the air 
as over me bent a shirt-sleeved man, calling off seconds, 
as I had seen referees do over men who had been knocked 
down in boxing contests. 

Then a great chill came over me, and, with it, a 
sense of strangulation. As I choked, a roaring filled 
my ears, but the sound no longer was that made by the 
voices of men and women. There now flashed into my 
mind a realization of the fact that I was in water—sink¬ 
ing—that I must struggle for my life. At last my head 
reached air. I freed my nose and mouth of water, and 
breathed again. With breath came thought—and 
horror. 

In the darkest night I ever had seen I was swimming 
alone—in the open sea! 

Dazed by the inexplicable nature of the accident that 
had befallen me, I thought slowly. My first impression 
was that I was the victim of a nightmare, but this passed 
quickly. Then it occurred to me that, despite the calm¬ 
ness of the sea before and after the occurrence that was 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 39 


responsible for my plight, the Powhatan had been over¬ 
whelmed by a tidal wave, and, still afloat, perhaps, was 
within range of my voice. Scarcely had this hope 
flashed into my mind when I began to call for aid. 

The great conglomerate of fog and darkness and pat¬ 
tering rain smothered my hollow shouts. As I listened 
vainly for a response, despair gripped my heart and throat 
until they swelled with pain. But, mechanically and 
aimlessly, I swam on. 

Stricken with some malady or with a mortal wound, 
nearly every man, whether strong or weak, meets death 
with fortitude. Physically and mentally sound, he may 
advance intrepidly toward a flashing battle line, walk with 
firm steps to the place of his military or civil execution, 
or, weary of earth, end his life with his own hand. In 
such situations death comes with the fulfilment of a 
purpose—surcease of suffering, the expression of loyalty 
or self-invited capital punishment. But when a strong 
man, free from mental and physical infirmity, is brought 
face to face with death in a situation such as the one 
which confronted me the most terrible degree of mental 
torture is likely to precede the flight of his soul. 

Though I may say truthfully that I had no fear of 
death itself, it still is true that the association of my 
physical strength and utter helplessness produced in my 
mind an anguish that is indescribable. I felt as if I were 
to be my own executioner—that, in order to sink to 
asphyxiation and death, it first would be necessary for 
me to exhaust deliberately the physical vigor with which 
nature and my inclination toward athletic exercises had 
endowed me. 

So broad and unruffled were the great, gently heaving 
sea-swells that I was scarcely sensible of their rise and 
fall. The water which had chilled me a bit when I was 


40 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


first immersed, now seemed of Gulf Stream warmth. 
When I had entered the Powhatan s wheelhouse I was 
perspiring as a result of the briskness of my walk on 
the deck. Accordingly I removed the raincoat I had 
been wearing. Leaving the wheelhouse, I had thrown the 
coat loosely over my shoulders, and when I fell it had 
slipped from me. So light and loose-fitting were the 
coat and trousers I wore that they hampered my move¬ 
ments as little as did the tennis shoes on my feet. 

Swimming as easily as I often had done at Newport 
and Palm Beach, I tried to meet with resignation the 
fate that seemed inevitable. But the effort was vain. 
Every impulse that came to me, every fibre of my being 
was in revolt against that God who had condemned me 
to such a death. 

How long I endured this mental torment I do not 
know, but its end came suddenly. In a moment all my 
senses were alert, and I was listening for a repetition of 
a sound that was of neither rain nor sea. It soon came 
to me again—a faint, creaking and grinding sound that 
bore some resemblance to those made by a big vessel, 
which, heaved by large swells, strains at its hawsers and 
grates against its pier. Scarcely had I begun to speculate 
on the nature of this sound when I became aware that 
the air was permeated by something stronger than brine. 
It was the acrid odor of burnt wood. 

Again the blood was throbbing in my temples, and the 
abrupt reaction from despair to hope produced a feeling 
of suffocation. So great was my agitation that my hearing 
was dulled, and for several moments I listened vainly 
for the sounds that had so affected me. When I heard 
them again I began to think more calmly, then realized 
how necessary it was that I should proceed with the 
greatest caution. A continuance of my ability to hear 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 41 


the sounds might mean life to me. Should they cease, 
death was inevitable. By swimming only a few strokes 
in the wrong direction I might be unable to hear them 
again. 

So impressed was I by the fear that I might lose my 
sense of direction that I restrained the impulse to shout 
for aid. Careful to keep my ears free from water, I 
now, for the first time, began to put power into my 
strokes. Soon the creaking and grinding and clanking 
grew louder. That the sounds emanated from some 
vessel was obvious. Fearful lest it might run me down 
or pass me, I ceased to press on and shouted with all 
the power of which my lungs were capable, but there 
came no answering hail. 

Once more I swam on. But now, as I proceeded, I 
exercised the greatest caution. Certain minor sounds, 
mingling with those I heard first, plainly indicated that 
I was within a few yards of my objective. That its 
motive power was idle was plain. So close was I to the 
vessel now that, had there been lights aboard, I scarcely 
could have failed to see something of their glow. The 
thought came to me that maybe, after all, this was the 
Powhatan, so crippled by the shock it had sustained that 
its light-generating apparatus had been made useless. 
Again I shouted—now calling the names of some of my 
late companions. But there came no answer. 

The last of my cries ended abruptly. My right hand, 
extended in a swimming movement, came in contact with 
something of rock-like solidity. Half-fearfully, I drew 
back, and the blood leaped in my veins; then, breathlessly, 
I struck out to find the rock-like thing again. The effort 
was successful. In a few moments I was passing one 
of my hands over a row of rivet heads, set in the steel 
side of a vessel. 


42 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


But the thrill of exultation that followed my discovery 
scarcely was gone before the old feeling of helplessness 
again settled upon me. My failure to obtain an answer 
to my shouts, the absence of lights, the motionless screw 
and the heavy, oppressive odor of burnt wood made the 
situation clear. 

I was swimming beside the fire-scarred hulk of a 
derelict, and into my mind flashed the suspicion that it 
was with this the Powhatan had been in collision—that 
this great worthless steel mass had survived the shock 
that sent the more lightly built steam yacht to the sea’s 
bottom. 

Perhaps, even now, the derelict, itself, was sinking, and 
in a few minutes I might be drawn down by the suction 
of the waters as they closed over her. But this reflec¬ 
tion did not inspire me with fear. It occurred to me 
that should the vessel go down, I, escaping the suction, 
might be able to find lodgment on some piece of charred 
wreckage left on the surface of the sea. 

Gradually this series of speculations ceased to engage 
my mind, which became dominated by the hope that I 
might find some means of getting aboard the vessel. This, 
at least, being in a steamship lane, might be observed in 
a few hours by some liner. If I could find some means 
of keeping afloat until after daybreak my rescue still was 
possible. 

And now a new inspiration came to me. I reflected 
that, lightened by the burning of woodwork and cargo, 
the derelict probably was drawing much less water than 
she had done before and that, as a result of the lowering 
of her waterline, her rudder or screw might afford me 
a temporary resting place. Accordingly I struck out in 
a direction which, I thought, might take me to the stern. 

Swimming slowly along the hull, I had progressed 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 43 


only ten or twelve yards when my head and one of my 
shoulders came into contact with something that produced 
upon me the effect of an unseen, reaching hand. Though 
startled, I clutched at it wildly. I missed it, at first, 
but in another moment it was in my grasp—a rope which 
depended from something above me. 

Hope flashed like lightning, but my senses were be¬ 
numbed by the rumbling of the thunder of despair. 
Cowardice set me trembling. I dared not test the strength 
of the rope that seemed to have been lowered to me from 
the skies. Was the upper end made fast, or was it 
lying loose? How was it possible that hempen strands 
could survive the heat of the fire that had swept the 
vessel? 

In a few moments, however, I nerved myself for the 
ordeal. Reaching well up, I grasped the rope firmly 
and threw my weight upon it. It met the test. 

In my boyhood I had climbed ropes in this fashion, 
and I soon found I had not lost the knack. With less 
physical strain than I had anticipated, I moved up evenly, 
hand over hand, until the rope ended in the blockless 
iron ring of a davit. I was beginning to breathe heavily, 
however, as I swung myself astride of the davit, and 
slipped cautiously to the vessel’s side. 

Clinging to the davit and the metalwork to which it 
was affixed, I tried to estimate the character of the footing 
immediately around it. I found all wood had been burned 
away and that I stood on the verge of what appeared 
to be a great void. Below I heard the swish of shifting 
waters and the creaking of iron as the vessel rolled from 
side to side on the swells. 

The metalwork around the foot of the davit was of a 
nature that afforded me a safe, if not comfortable, perch 
for the night, and so, after removing my dripping coat 


44 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


and my soaked shoes, I seated myself and proceeded to 
await the coming of dawn. 

When day broke, a dismal prospect met my view. 
With the exception of part of the deck in the stern and 
a small stern deckhouse, the interior of the vessel had 
been so ravaged by fire that the structure now was 
scarcely more than an immense floating iron tank. The 
cross-beams, reddish and gray, remained in position. 
Between them, piled upon them or swinging beneath them 
were great tangled masses of grotesquely twisted steel 
and fragments of blackened wood. These, grating 
together as the big hulk lolled on the swells, produced the 
sounds that first had attracted my attention. 

The position in which I now found myself was on the 
starboard side, well aft, but still about thirty feet from 
that part of the stern deck that was only partly destroyed. 
Working my way carefully along the side of the hulk, I 
had comparatively little difficulty in getting to the stern 
deck. This, despite its blackened appearance, I found 
capable of sustaining my weight, and over it I made my 
way to the deckhouse. 

By what freakish combination of circumstances the 
complete destruction of this deckhouse had been arrested 
it would be difficult to explain. Though charred inside 
and out, the walls and roof still remained in position, and 
within were a table and four chairs, all partly burned. 
Subsequent speculations on the subject inclined me to the 
belief that it was here the fire had its origin, and that 
while the crew was fighting it at this point it had swept 
forward where it raged unchecked. The drenching to 
which the deckhouse had been subjected, before the crew 
fled from the vessel, doubtless had been sufficient to enable 
this part of the structure to withstand the heat to which it 
afterward was exposed. 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 45 


A warm sun contributed in no small degree to my 
comfort during the day and enabled me to dry my wet 
garments, but by noon an intolerable thirst began to as¬ 
sert itself. It then occurred to me that, as it had rained 
the night before, I might obtain fresh water from depres¬ 
sions in the steel structural work. I found a dilapidated 
pan, and, after considerable labor, I collected enough 
water to last me for at least forty-eight hours. 

There was something so miraculous in the manner 
I had been able to board the derelict that, for several 
hours, I did not doubt that eventually I would be taken 
off by a passing vessel. Firm in my faith, I was 
depressed only by the magnitude of the disaster that had 
come to my friends on the Powhatan, for that the yacht 
had gone down I did not doubt. But, as hour after 
hour passed, my failure to see even the smoke of a 
passing vessel again unnerved me. Had I escaped death 
from the waves only to perish of hunger and thirst on a 
charred derelict? 

By nightfall my head was aching as a result of hunger, 
the glare of the sun on the sea and the overpowering 
odor of burned timbers. For several hours longer I 
looked over the star-reflecting waters for the lights of 
some passing liner, which, though it could not see my 
signals, still would give me assurance that the derelict was 
in a steamship lane. But I saw none, and, worn with 
fatigue and despondency, I stretched myself on the 
charred floor of the deckhouse and slept. 

I was awake at sunrise, and resumed my vigil. And 
now the monotony of it all began to have a strange effect 
on my mind. It was difficult for me to keep my thoughts 
out of ruts. The dominant subject in my mind was the 
rope by means of which I had boarded the derelict. 
Why had it not been destroyed by the fire which swept 


46 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


the vessel ? Why was it tied in that fashion to the 
davit ring, instead of passing through a block? 

So engrossed did I become in such speculation that 
once I worked my way back to the davit and there pro¬ 
ceeded to subject the rope to a careful examination. It 
was plain that it had not even been singed. The thought 
then came to me that, following the fire, the derelict had 
been boarded by members of the crew of some passing 
ship. I realized it would be possible for sailors in a 
small boat to get a light line over some projection above 
them, draw up a rope and board the hulk. In such a 
case, it was possible that, making a descent by means of 
the davit, the last one down had left the line in the posi¬ 
tion in which I had found it. 

But even the partial acceptance of this theory did not 
enable me to get my thoughts out of the rut for which 
the rope was responsible. Try as I might, I could think 
of nothing but the rope. 

Brain-weary and suffering from the pangs of hunger, 
I was watching the sun go down at the close of my second 
day on the derelict when my attention was suddenly at¬ 
tracted by something which darted by me—something that 
seemed to be a black bird, a little smaller than a robin. 
But, as it wheeled and circled above me, I finally iden¬ 
tified it. 

It was a bat. 

As I watched the thing, it darted toward the forward 
part of the derelict and disappeared. 

So little impression did the incident make upon me, 
at first, that, for the next two hours, it had no place in 
my thoughts. It was not until, with my folded coat for 
a pillow, I had stretched myself again on the floor of the 
deckhouse that the ill-omened creature fluttered into my 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 47 


mind in a manner that was productive of a sudden mental 
shock. 

For hours my disordered fancy had been occupied with 
an attempt to solve the mystery of the unsinged rope. 
But here was a mystery that was still more baffling. As¬ 
suming that the loathsome thing had been on the vessel 
prior to the fire, how had it contrived to survive the 
period in which the burning hulk was enveloped in flames 
and smoke? It had been my understanding that the 
flights of bats were of comparatively brief duration. 
Where had this found lodgment while the fire was raging? 
Had it clung to some piece of wreckage it found floating 
on the sea? Or had it hung or lain in the charred deck¬ 
house while the flames were consuming the forward part 
of the vessel? 

It was in vain that I tried to expel it from my mind. 
It remained as firmly fixed as one which, in my boyhood, 
I had seen entangled in a woman’s hair. A thrill of 
horror passed through me as I reflected that bats were 
believed to possess the attributes of vampires. I had 
seen this one sally forth in quest of prey. But what 
was there in or about this fire-scarred mass of eternally 
crunching, creaking, wailing steel that could minister to 
its appetite? 

Half rising, I looked fearfully toward the doorless 
doorway and shattered windows. 

And so it came to pass that I dared not sleep. Sitting 
cross-legged on the deckhouse floor, my gaze wandered 
from window to window and to the open doorway with 
dread expectancy. 

“It will come back,” I kept repeating. 

While I waited, a new thought came to me. I rose, 
stepped outside and picked up a stick which had been 
lying on the deck. With this I re-entered the deckhouse. 


48 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


Dread gave place to sleepless patience as I resumed my 
vigil. But the thing for which I waited did not come. 

When darkness melted into the changing hues of dawn 
I left the deckhouse. With my night vigil ended and 
my day vigil begun, my weary gaze passed around the 
great circle of the horizon. No ship or blur of smoke 
met my view. The craving for food, which had caused 
much discomfort during the night, had left me now, but 
the indications of a clear, warm day brought to me new 
reason for anxiety. Of my carefully hoarded water only 
two swallows remained. 

And yet in the freshness of the morning air there was 
something that seemed to bring new life to me. My 
jaded spirit rose with the sun, and I reproached myself 
for the fears that had been responsible for my sleepless 
nights—fears which, I knew now, merely had been prod¬ 
ucts of a fancy disordered by hunger, unearthly isolation, 
the loss of friends, exposure, lack of tobacco and the 
ceaseless creaking and wailing of the mass of wreckage 
in the hold. 

But how was I to guard against a recurrence of such 
fears and such a night as the one I just had passed? 
Then I remembered I had heard it said that the most 
effective way to free the mind of an unwelcome fancy 
is to write something concerning it and lay it away. I 
was inclined to ridicule the idea at first, but it soon made 
another sort of appeal to me, for it offered a new means 
of relieving the monotony of my position. 

Attached to the chain of the watch which went with 
me aboard the derelict was a little gold pencil, and in 
one of the pockets of my coat were several letters. Reas¬ 
oning that these might serve as a means of identifying 
my body if it should be found on the derelict, I had 
dried them and returned them to my pocket. On the back 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 49 


of one of the letters I now proceeded to write eight 
rhymed lines suggested by the fears that had come to 
me the night before. When I was done, I folded the 
sheet and slipped it back in the pocket from which I had 
taken it. 

The morning was only about half spent when a plainly 
discernible smudge of smoke on the western horizon in¬ 
dicated the position of a steamship. For more than half 
an hour, tortured by nerve-racking anxiety, I watched it. 
It disappeared, however, and with disappointment came 
mental and physical collapse. 

Whether I fainted, or whether, yielding to exhaustion 
resulting from my wakeful night, I sank into a heavy 
sleep, I do not know. It was almost sundown, however, 
when I regained my senses. When I had lapsed into 
unconsciousness I had been on the deck. Now I was 
on the floor of the deckhouse. I was coughing, and my 
blackened skin was hot with fever. 

Rising weakly, I went to the pan that had held my 
supply of water. It was empty. Seating myself on the 
floor beside the pan, I hid my face in my hands. As 
my lids closed over my smarting eyes, it seemed to me 
I was standing on the deck of th^ Powhatan, defending 
myself against a giant seagull that had attacked me. 

I was sinking into a doze when something startled me. 
As I raised my head all my nerves were quivering. No 
longer conscious of physical weakness, I rose with trem¬ 
bling haste and crossed to the doorway of the deckhouse. 
Looking out, I saw that a strange, twilight haze had en¬ 
veloped the derelict, shutting out even a view of the sea. 
Then—far, far in the distance—I heard the sullen boom¬ 
ing of a steamer’s siren. 

There was a long interval of silence, then the blasts 
were repeated, but I was unable to determine whether the 


50 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


sounds indicated that the unseen vessel was drawing 
nearer. Four blasts were followed by another long period 
of silence. 

Through long minutes I waited breathlessly. Then the 
siren boomed again. A fierce exultation possessed me as 
I realized that, through the haze, the steamer was head¬ 
ing toward the derelict. 

Scarcely had the notes of the blast died away, however, 
when a great chill smote me. From the creaking, mist- 
enshrouded wreckage in the derelict’s hold suddenly issued 
a long peal of shrill, feminine laughter. Then there rose 
a series of weird notes, which, at first, I was unable to 
identify. Finally I recognized them. They were the 
notes of a concertina. 

And soon, mingling with the concertina’s strains, I 
heard the voice of a woman, who, in a dreary monotone, 
sang the lines I had written on the back of a letter several 
hours before:— 

“You who would fresh water taste, 

’Mid this wreckage, warped and torn, 

Shall yield to me, before they waste, 

A hundred blood-drops in the morn. 

When I have had my full desire, 

I will supply your every need. 

Sweet water then shall quench your fire 
And savoury food reward the deed.” 

The singer ceased. Trembling and weak again, I 
leaned against the charred deckhouse. Once more I heard 
the siren’s blasts. Fainter now, they were coming from 
a greater distance. The steamer, unseeing and unseen, 
had altered her course. 

Tottering and groping like a drunkard, I went into 
the deckhouse and sank to the floor. In my brain Reason 
and Unreason were in conflict. Reason told me the con¬ 
certina and the woman I had heard were mere products 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 51 


of a disordered fancy. But Unreason assured me that 
they were real and that I must prepare to meet the 
woman. Mumbling blasphemies, addressed to each, I 
closed my eyes, and slept. 

I awoke with a cry of alarm. Something had struck 
me lightly on the face, and, as I listened, I heard a faint, 
fluttering sound. Looking around me, I saw a singular 
change had come to the interior of the deckhouse, which 
now seemed rather larger than before. A dimly burning 
lamp lighted the room, and above a rusty stove bent 
an aged crone, warming her hands and muttering inco¬ 
herently. Under one arm she carried a stout staff with 
which, from time to time, she struck at something in the 
air. In a moment I marked the cause of the fluttering 
I had heard. In the room were at least a score of bats. 

“Begone, ye pests!” exclaimed the old hag, with vin¬ 
dictive eyes. “D'ye not know Laquella will soon be 
here? Back—back to your holes, ye evil-eyed devils! 
D’ye not hear Laquella at the door?” 

The words were scarcely spoken when a young woman 
entered the doorway. 

As I gazed upon the newcomer I was overcome by 
mingled sensations of admiration and fear. She was 
of extraordinary beauty. Her dark hair fell in unkempt 
masses about her shoulders. She wore only two gar¬ 
ments—a white chemise and a red petticoat which ex¬ 
tended to her ankles. Her skin was dark and her teeth 
faultless. There was something in her expression, how¬ 
ever—the lines of her mouth, the unnatural, velvety 
lustre of her eyes, the abnormal redness of her lips and 
the cat-like grace of her body—that at once fascinated 
and repelled me. As she advanced with languid steps 
into the deckhouse, water ran in streams from the folds 
of her rain-soaked garments, and she shivered. 


52 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


“It’s bitterly cold to-night, mother/’ she began, in soft, 
plaintive accents, as she folded her bare arms across 
her bosom and drew nearer the stove. 

There was a sudden fluttering among the bats that had 
found lodgment among the timbers at the top of the 
room. 

“Silence!” shrieked the old woman. “Ye black-winged 
leeches, d’ye not see Laquella is here?” Leering, she 
turned toward the newcomer and added: “Somebody’s 
waiting, my dear. Ah, it’s many a long moon since you 
have had a lover so strong—eh, Laquella?” And the 
crone cackled mischievously. 

Laquella, giving a little start, faced me suddenly. At 
first a smile, as of joyous surprise, played about her lips, 
but, as she gazed, this was succeeded by an expression 
of fierce, passionate yearning, which, kindling in her wide, 
lustrous eyes, rapidly lightened her features. Her red 
lips parted and her bosom heaved as she extended her 
arms and approached me. Three or four quick strides 
brought her to where I lay, then, with a little sigh, she 
sank down beside me. 

“See, I shudder with the cold,” she whispered, as she 
caressed my head. “Breathe—breathe on me, dear. 
Your breath is life—life to me. Oh, God! How chill 
and lonely it is out here on the sea, which moans all day 
and night, and talks of death. Draw me closer—closer, 
love, and warm me in your arms.” 

Obedient to her will, I drew her to me. For several 
moments she hid her face on my breast, and I felt her 
body shake with convulsive sobs. At length she raised 
her head, and I shrank in terror from the passionate eyes 
that fixed their gaze on mine. 

“I live—I live again!” she murmured. “Already 
Death’s dreadful fingers are beginning to relax their 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 53 


hold. You are breathing me back to life again—to live 
—to live for you.” 

Clasping me tighter in her arms, she pressed her lips 
to my forehead. A chill pervaded my body, and I 
trembled violently. Drawing back a little, she placed her 
frigid palms to my cheeks, and then went on: 

“But your hot flesh burns my hands. Your feverish 
blood-” 

She paused abruptly and, with a little gasp, she turned 
away. Her hands moved quickly to the upper part of 
my right arm, and I felt her toying with the sleeve of 
my shirt. Suddenly a twinge of pain darted through me, 
and as, with exclamations of horror and distress, I tried 
to rise, I heard a ripping sound made by the tearing of 
the sleeve. A wild light was shining in her eyes, and, 
as she forced me back again, I knew the blood I saw on 
one of her hands was my own.. 

Panting, and with eager haste, she pressed her cold 
lips to the bleeding wound. It was in vain that I strug¬ 
gled frantically and bade her desist. My privations had 
exhausted me, and she was the stronger of the two. I 
felt my remaining strength slipping away from me. Then 
I lost consciousness. 

Slowly my senses came back to me again. A spoon 
was being thrust between my teeth, and the odor of broth 
was in my nostrils. I made a weak attempt to turn the 
spoon aside, for was not this food the price of blood? 

“Take it—take it, lad! Were the hampers of the 
Hannibal so well filled that you have no need of the 
bounty of the Highland Lady!” 

The voice was that of a man, and, half-fearfully, I 
opened my eyes. I saw that I now lay in the berth of a 
well-appointed stateroom, and that two men were stand¬ 
ing beside me. One, clad in a blue uniform, held a 

o 



54 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


spoon and cup. The other, somewhat younger, was 
dressed as a ship’s steward. 

“Is he coming round, Doctor?” asked a quiet, kindly 
voice near the door. 

“Oh, yes, yes—he’ll do well enough now,” replied the 
man in the blue uniform, then, again addressing me, he 
said: “Come, come, man, take this broth and then-” 

But I heard no more. The physician who had found 
it necessary to use force to get the spoonfuls of broth 
between my lips now was compelled forcibly to restrain 
me from seizing the cup that held the precious liquid. 
The doles came too slowly, and I gulped them down like 
a famished beast of prey. And, as I ate and felt the 
warmth of brandy and broth stealing through my veins, 
I realized that the vampire had indeed kept her word and 
I was saved. 

When the cup of broth was empty, I besought the 
physician for water and more food, but all my prayers 
to him were vain. 

“In another half hour, perhaps, but not now,” he an¬ 
swered kindly. “Your stomach is so weak that we must 
wait a while.” 

In a frenzy of despair I rose to a sitting posture, and 
accused the physician of attempting to starve me. Laying 
a hand on my shoulder, he tried to force me to lie down 
again. As I raised my right arm to thrust his hand 
away a violent pain racked my arm and shoulder. 

“Be careful, my man!” exclaimed the physician, 
sharply, and an expression of anxiety came into his eyes. 
“In trying to fill your stomach, see to it that you don’t 
empty your sleeve.” 

Half-swooning with pain, I glanced at my arm. Then 
I saw that it was swollen to nearly twice its natural size 
and was bandaged just below the shoulder. 



THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 55 


Once more the horror of my terrible adventure on the 
derelict overwhelmed me, and I lost consciousness. 

How often I regained my senses and lost them again 
in the course of the next few days I do not know. 
Everything around me was blurred. Again and again 
I heard the fluttering of the bats, but strange voices kept 
assuring me that the sounds were those of waves and 
rain. Twice or thrice I shrieked in fear as I saw the 
face of Laquella at my stateroom door, and often, weep¬ 
ing like a child, I told myself that I was mad. 

But there came a day, at last, when the hateful flutter¬ 
ing ceased and the features of Laquella haunted me no 
more. The faces and words of those who attended me 
grew more and more distinct. Before, sunlight, moon¬ 
light and lamplight had been as one to me, but now I 
was able to distinguish the difference between day and 
night. When the change in my condition was brought 
about, I was lying on a cot in a Liverpool hospital, and 
I was informed that I had been in the institution for 
more than a week. 

I was told, too, that not once since I had been taken 
from the derelict Hannibal, in mid-ocean, had I been 
able to speak coherently. My name was unknown, and 
the captain of the steamship Highland Lady had failed 
to learn from me how it had come to pass that I had 
“survived the fire that had destroyed the tramp steamer.” 

I asked the day of the month, and, when I learned 
this, I realized that two weeks had passed since that 
fateful night when I stood on the bridge on the Pow¬ 
hatan. 

In response to the eager questions of my attendants, I 
described the yacht’s collision with the derelict, but I 
was unable to tell whether or not the Powhatan went 
down. I told them, too, of the manner I had climbed 


56 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


aboard the derelict, but of my experience with Laquella 
I did not speak, for I felt now that that incident was 
nothing more than the product of an imagination distorted 
by the physical suffering to which I had been subjected. 

“But how did you come by that wound in your arm?” 
asked one of the physicians, when I had finished my 
story. 

“The wound!” I exclaimed wonderingly.. 

“In your right arm—yes. Did you not know it was 
there?” 

I felt beads of perspiration gathering on my brow, 
and my limbs began to tremble. 

“No,” I answered, weakly. 

“You were scratched by a piece of rusty metal, per¬ 
haps,” my questioner said, thoughtfully. “But, what¬ 
ever the cause may have been, you have had an attack 
of gangrene that almost made it necessary for us to 
amputate your arm. In delaying the operation we took 
a long chance, but the danger is over now, and another 
fortnight will find you little the worse physically as a 
result of your unfortunate adventure.” 

Stricken aghast by the significance of the wound in 
my arm, I still struggled to assure myself that the injury 
was, as the doctor had suggested, nothing more than 
infection resulting from some trifling and unnoticed 
scratch that I had received while I was on the derelict. 
But, strive as I would to combat it, the impression made 
on my mind by the notes of the concertina, by the voice 
and words of the singer and by the visit of the mysterious 
young woman to the wrecked deckhouse, continued so 
strong that I was no longer able to regard these incidents 
as anything less than realities. 

At length, completely cured of the malady that had 
threatened me with the loss of my arm, as well as the 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 57 


loss of my life, I left the hospital. From England I 
went to the Continent to recuperate, and it was not until 
the following Spring that I returned to New York. 

The Summer and Autumn that followed my return to 
the United States were uneventful. With my health com¬ 
pletely restored, I again addressed myself to my business 
interests, and in the commonplace atmosphere in which 
I moved romance and superstition had so little place that 
at last I came to regard my adventure on the Hannibal 
as one recalls the half-forgotten scenes of a nightmare. 

About this time a change came over me, and club life 
began to lose many of its former charms. I spent more 
time at the homes of my friends, and was frequently a 
member of week-end parties at country houses, but, 
though I was finding more pleasure in the society of 
women than I had found before, no member of the sex 
had made any serious impression upon me. 

Thus it came to pass that I was again pursuing the 
even tenor of my way, with pleasing prospects and with 
no past misfortunes to mourn other than the deaths of 
my parents and the tragical end of Tallier and my other 
shipmates on the Powhatan, when one night in early 
December, I attended a performance of “L’Africaine in 
the Metropolitan Opera House. Accompanied by George 
Kane, one of my friends, I left the box which we had 
been occupying with his mother and sister, and strolled 
out to the foyer. We were about to return to the box 
when my companion nodded slightly to one of the 
promenaders. Involuntarily I glanced toward the person 
who had attracted the attention of my friend. This 
was a dark-haired, clean-shaven young man of about my 
own age. His face was long and well-moulded, and his 
tall, faultlessly clad figure was that of an athlete. 

But for only a moment did my gaze rest on this 


58 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


stranger. Beside him was a young woman—a young 
woman whose face and figure were, I think, the most 
beautiful I had ever seen. She was rather above the 
medium height of women, and her dark hair, coiled in 
great masses behind her shapely head and neck, seemed 
by the contrast it offered to enhance the exquisite coloring 
of her features. Her eyes were dark and singularly 
lustrous. She was laughing when I saw her first, and 
her red lips, faultless teeth and vivacious expression would 
have been sufficient to fascinate an ordinary observer, 
even had her other perfections been less striking. She 
was gowned in black and her splendid shoulders and arms 
were bare. Unlike other fashionably dressed women, she 
wore no necklace or bracelets. 

As the young woman turned her head carelessly, her 
gaze met mine, but it was only for a moment. She 
nodded slightly to my companion, and then passed on 
with her escort. 

“Who are they, Kane?” I asked abruptly, turning to 
my friend. 

“Tom Trevison and his sister,” he answered, shortly. 

“Trevison!” I muttered. “I have no recollection of 
having heard of them before.” 

“They’re not in society. Old Trevison, several years 
ago, came from somewhere out West, where he owned 
some mining property. About a year ago he died. No 
one ever saw Tom before that, and what he does for a 
living no man knows. He and his sister live together 
at an apartment hotel away up-town. They are great 
music lovers, and it’s only at the opera and at musicales 
one ever sees them. The girl’s a stunner, though. It’s 
a pity she doesn’t let herself out.” 

The curtain was about to go up, so we hurried back to 
our box. 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 59 


From that night I became known as one of the most 
assiduous patrons of opera and piano recitals in the 
metropolis. I soon learned that Kane had spoken truly. 
Music was Miss Trevison’s hobby. I repeatedly saw her 
with her brother at the Metropolitan Opera House at 
night, and I was quick to observe that they nearly always 
occupied the same seats about the middle of the orchestra. 
In the afternoons I frequently saw Miss Trevison at piano 
or violin recitals, on which occasions she was accom¬ 
panied by one or two women friends. 

At length, with a fluttering heart, I became conscious 
of the fact that the young woman had begun to notice 
my presence at the various entertainments which attracted 
her. On several occasions I saw her gaze rest upon me 
for a moment as she glanced over the audience in the 
course of her search for familiar faces. 

Once, while she was conversing with a man whom I 
knew to be a musical critic for one of the newspapers, 
I saw the man glance toward me quickly. He looked at 
me searchingly for several moments, then, turning to her 
again, he shook his head. 

I inferred that, answering a question, he had told her 
I was not a member of his guild. 

Two weeks after the evening on which I first had seen 
Miss Trevison at the Opera House, I contrived to secure 
an introduction to her brother. A week later the brother 
introduced me to his sister, and on the following after¬ 
noon I met and conversed with her at a recital given by 
a celebrated Russian pianist. 

I doubt whether, in such a brief period, any man was so 
quickly subjugated by a woman’s charms. At last I had 
permission to visit her, and the privilege of escorting her 
to musical entertainments was accorded to me. I became 
more and more desperately in love. 


60 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


But, by degrees, there came to be mingled with this 
love an almost indefinable sense of fear. Strong as I am 
physically, there were times when the very thought of 
Paula Trevison set me trembling. What had inspired 
this fear I did not know. Often I would try to analyze 
the feeling. Sometimes I fancied it was caused by doubts 
of my ability to win her, but as, day by day, we became 
better comrades, I grew more sanguine, and yet the haunt¬ 
ing sense of fear became more and more perceptible, 
taking the form of one of those premonitions of evil 
which all men have felt at some period of their lives. 

One afternoon, in February, Paula and I, seated 
together in a concert room, were listening to a famous 
pianist’s exquisite rendition of one of Chopin’s nocturnes. 
While under the spell of the music I involuntarily laid 
my hand on hers. As our eyes met, something in those 
of my companion caused me to grow hot and cold in turn. 
In that glance I read the confession of a love so masterful 
and passionate that I believed it was more than human, 
and yet I felt that it was no more strong than mine. 

That night I asked Paula to be my wife, and, as she 
gave me the answer that I craved, I took her in my arms. 
Our lips met, and then—ah, all that followed seemed to 
be as unreal as the incidents of a dream. I kissed her 
lips, her brow, her hair, her hands. I saw the half¬ 
grave, half-smiling face of her brother as we told him 
all. But, when he took my hands, I, who was physically 
as strong as he, was trembling like a frightened child. 

When I returned to my apartments that night I tottered 
like a drunkard, and as I saw my reflection in a mirror 
I shrank aghast from the ashen features and bloodshot 
eyes that confronted me. 

I asked myself whether I was mad. If not, why 
should I have walked the floor nearly all that night, 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 61 


striving to banish from my mind the love-illumined face 
of Paula Trevison? Why were my heart and mind 
in conflict? Why was I tortured by sensations such as 
might come to a man who, having sold his soul to the 
devil for five years of Paradise, hesitates to enter into 
his reward? 

During the three months that followed Paula’s consent 
to become my wife, my fear that I was losing my reason 
became so great that at length it virtually amounted to 
a conviction. In her presence I was always a passionate 
and devoted admirer, but no sooner did I leave her than 
I reproached myself because of my inability to keep 
away from her—to thrust her out of my life. 

It was arranged that we should be married in June, 
and that after the ceremony we should embark for Eu¬ 
rope where our honeymoon would be spent. In accord¬ 
ance with this plan, a little party of our friends assembled 
in a Harlem church one morning and in their presence 
Paula Trevison became my wife. An hour later we en¬ 
tered a limousine and in this we set off for the pier to 
which our luggage had been taken the day before. 

For several moments after entering the vehicle we sat 
in silence, with Paula’s hand clasped in mine. Then I 
observed that my wife was looking at me curiously. At 
length, laughing a little uneasily, she spoke. 

“It seems so strange, dear, that you should be more 
nervous than I this morning,” she said. “Are you not 
well?” 

There was a note of reproach in her voice, and, as she 
attempted to withdraw the hand I held, I grasped it more 
tightly. 

“I am well enough,” I answered, “but I thought the 
ceremony would never end, and, after it was over, every 
one, in offering congratulations, seemed to say something 


62 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


to which I had replied before. I am afraid that the 
difficulty I found in giving variety to my replies made 
me irritable.” 

“Well, you looked positively haggard,” said Paula 
laughingly, “and, when I saw you so, I began to see in 
your face something that gave me the impression that we 
had met somewhere before—a long time before you first 
saw me on that night in the Opera House.” 

“That we had met before!” I muttered. “Had we 
met before I think I surely would have remembered it.” 

She shrugged her shoulders. 

“It is no more than a mere fancy of mine, I suppose,” 
she said. 

We rode on in silence, but there had been something 
in her words that changed the current of my thoughts, 
and I asked myself whether, after all, it was not possible 
that we had, indeed, met before. 

We arrived at the pier at last, and, alighting from the 
limousine, we quickly crossed the gangplank and made 
our way to the stateroom I had engaged. This was on 
the promenade deck, and immediately after entering I 
proceeded to open the window in order to admit the air. 

Thinking that some of our friends might have decided 
to come to the pier to see us off, I left Paula in the 
stateroom, and strolled out on the deck. As I looked over 
the rail I saw a large crowd of Italians who, apparently, 
had assembled to bid farewell to some of their fellow- 
countrymen in the steerage. 

At length I saw a couple of waving arms and I recog¬ 
nized Paula’s brother and one of his friends. They 
quickly shouldered their way through the crowd, but just 
as they reached the foot of the gangplank an officer mo¬ 
tioned them back. A moment later cries of “All off for 
the shore” were echoing through the vessel, and the men 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 63 


who had been standing beside the great posts over which 
the hawser loops were thrown began to manifest signs 
of activity. The time for sailing was at hand. 

Waving my hands toward my friends on the shore, I 
hurried back to the stateroom for Paula. As I paused 
at the door, I saw she had removed the hat she had 
worn on the way to the pier and that she was now 
putting on a Tam-o’ Shanter. 

I was about to speak when the sounds of Italian voices 
crying “addios” came to my ears through the open 
window. The cries ceased as suddenly as they had risen, 
and then I heard a sound that caused me to start violently. 
As I listened, Paula turned toward me. 

The sound I heard was that of a concertina! 

What Paula saw in my face just then I do not know, 
but, pallid and trembling, she retreated a step or two 
and gazed at me with wide, wondering eyes. 

The thrill of horror that passed though my body caused 
me to shiver. There was a strange, tickling sensation 
on my scalp and my hair felt as if it was rising. 

The notes of the concertina had broken the spell that 
had kept my memory dormant. All was clear to me now. 
I knew how it had come to pass that I had been led to 
fear the woman I had made my wife. The woman to 
whom I had given my love and name was Laquella— 
Laquella, the vampire of the derelict! 

In a voice that was so hoarse with emotion that it 
did not seem to be my own I said: 

“Your suspicion was well-founded, madame. The 
meeting in the Opera House was not our first.” 

Shrinking further from me, she murmured, with 
trembling lips: 

“Yes—yes. I remember now. You are-” 

With a groan of horror and anguish, I turned from the 



64 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


room and closed the door behind me. From the decks 
and the depths of the great vessel there still came the 
mournful cry of the stewards: 

“All off for the shore.” 

Moved by a sudden impulse, I dashed down the com¬ 
panionway that led to the deck below. There I found 
that several seamen already were beginning to run the 
gangplank from the vessel. I called to them to pause, 
and then shouldered my way past them. A few moments 
later I was on the pier. 

As I hastened toward the street, I heard a man's voice 
call my name. Looking over my shoulder, I saw the 
white face and wonder-stricken eyes of Paula’s brother. 
I quickened my steps and before he caught up with me 
I was in a taxicab. In accordance with my quickly 
spoken instructions, the chauffeur started in the direction 
of an uptown hotel. Within five minutes I was satisfied 
that I had shaken off my pursuer. 

As soon as I was assured of my success in eluding 
Paula’s brother, I hastened to the office of my lawyer. 
Though I had given no thought to the matter at the time 
of my mad flight from the ship, I afterward recollected 
that my wife was provided with sufficient funds to enable 
her to return to the United States. I directed my lawyer, 
however, to cable to one of his English correspondents 
to meet the vessel on its arrival at Liverpool and to 
render my wife whatever assistance she might require. 
In addition to this, I placed a large sum to Paula’s credit 
in a New York bank, and caused her brother to be in¬ 
formed of my action. 

More than four months have passed since then, and, 
during this period my wife and I have not met, nor have 
we, either directly or indirectly, been in communication. 
The first two months I spent in the West, and, with the 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 65 


single exception of my lawyer, none of my friends knew 
my address. Returning then to the East, I took passage 
for Europe. There I remained until two weeks ago. 

I have learned that my wife embarked for New York 
immediately after her arrival in Liverpool, but neither 
she nor her brother has made an attempt to find me.. 
The money which I placed to Paula’s credit in the bank 
has remained untouched. 

In conclusion, I will say that, since my flight from 
my wife, there has been scarcely an hour of the day or 
night, except when sleep has given me a respite, that my 
mind has not been occupied with attempts to find some 
comforting solution to the mystery which partly cloaks 
the incidents that have wrecked my life. For several 
weeks I could not free myself from the impression that 
I was the victim of supernatural agencies. Now, how¬ 
ever, I am satisfied that Paula Trevison, perhaps half- 
crazed by privations similar to mine, was on the derelict 
at the time that I found refuge there, and that she had 
as a companion the old crone whom I heard address her 
as Laquella. How they came there, only Heaven knows, 
but you will recollect that I have told you that I got aboard 
the Hannibal by means of a rope that hung over the side. 
That rope was of hemp, and it is obvious that it must 
have been fastened to the davit after the fire had swept the 
vessel. This fact indicates that, subsequent to the fire 
on the Hannibal, and prior to the sinking of the Pow¬ 
hatan, the derelict was boarded, either by persons who 
had put off in boats at the time of the fire or by others. 
It was, of course, impossible for a woman to get aboard 
as I did by means of this rope, but it is natural to infer 
that the rope was used for the ascent and descent of a 
seaman who may have belonged to a party that had a 
rope ladder. In that case the ladder doubtless was taken 


66 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


away in the boat that had brought it, and the rope was left 
hanging from the davit. 

Convinced, then, that the woman I have wed is none 
other than that Laquella, who whether mad or sane, 
inspired me with horror on the derelict Hannibal, I am 
resolved to avoid as much as possible every town in 
which I believe her to be. I do this because I fear that, 
if we were to meet again, the love with which she once 
inspired me would triumph over every principle that is 
allied with my self-respect, for in her presence I would 
have to combat one of the most potent spells which the 
beauty of woman ever cast over the heart of man. 


As the Fugitive Bridegroom finished his story, the 
Nervous Physician leaned forward. 

“Are we to understand that, since your recovery from 
the effects of your privations, you have had no com¬ 
munication with the captain or other officers of the High¬ 
land Lady?” he asked. 

“I have not seen or communicated with any of them.” 

“But you have some reason to know that you were 
the only person taken off the derelict?” 

“Yes. The newspapers published the captain’s story 
before my identity was known. I was the only person 
rescued from the Hannibal.” 

The Homicidal Professor was the next to speak. 

“And you are quite certain that, prior to the loss of 
the Powhatan, you had not seen the young woman who 
is now your wife?” he asked. 

“Of that I am certain,” the Fugitive Bridegroom 
replied in a tone of conviction. 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 67 


The Homicidal Professor nodded and settled back in 
his chair. 

Westfall rose. 

“As I have told you, my friends, the story of the 
Fugitive Bridegroom was the first link I found to this 
mysterious chain, and it was for this reason that I placed 
his adventure first. In due time, and in the proper place, 
more light will be thrown on the incidents which you have 
just heard described. We cannot look for this, however, 
in the narrative which we are about to have from the 
Whispering Gentleman—a narrative which properly may 
he said to introduce the principals of this extraordinary 
affair. 

He nodded toward the Whispering Gentleman, who 
forthwith proceeded in a loud, hoarse whisper, to describe 
the incidents which had resulted in his appearance on 
the Barge of Haunted Lives. 


CHAPTER IV 


♦ 


THE SHADOW OF NEMESIS 

In the insane asylums of the United States there are, 
at this hour, hundreds of persons who are no more mad 
than are men and women who, having witnessed one 
of the entertainments of some modern exponent of the 
art of legerdemain, soberly describe to their friends the 
acts that have excited their wonder. 

No man who describes the impressions made upon him 
by Hermann or Kellar is suspected of lunacy. But when 
such impressions are produced by some event or events 
in everyday life, the minds which receive them are thought 
to be abnormal. 

It was in consequence of an experience of this sort 
that, several months ago, I became an inmate of a sani¬ 
tarium for the insane. In that institution I doubtless 
should have been to-day had it not been for the fact that 
its superintendent suddenly discovered that he, too, was 
being threatened by the same mysterious force which, 
tightening its grip on me, had caused me to be regarded 
as a madman. This discovery resulted in my release 
from the asylum; but since I left its walls my peril has 
been doubly great—so great, indeed, that the final catas¬ 
trophe may confront me at any moment. 

Though my hair is white, and my hands are as palsied 
as those of a nonogenarian, I am entering only my forty- 
third year. Two years ago my hair was as black as it 
had been during the period of my youth, and, as a result 

68 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 69 


of several extended periods of travel, on foot and horse¬ 
back, in different parts of the world, I was the possessor 
of an excellent physique. 

My fondness for travel was developed at an early age, 
and shortly after taking my degree at a well-known 
university I became a member of the Geographical So¬ 
ciety. I inherited a small fortune from an uncle and, 
in a modest way, made a cruise among the South Sea 
Islands, and to the East coast of Africa. There I joined 
a French exploring expedition, with which I went through 
the territory lying between Zanzibar and Victoria Nyanza. 
For the next ten years I found employment with expe¬ 
ditions sent to remote sections of the world by universities 
and learned societies in search of ethnological, zoological, 
archeological, and botanical information. 

In this manner I was able to indulge my taste for 
travel without drawing to any great extent on my private 
income. The credit of all my work has gone to those 
who employed me, and there are at least half a score of 
authors of popular books of travel who are indebted to 
me for much of the data which they profess to have 
collected themselves. But, loving travel for its own sake, 
and craving neither fame nor fortune, I was well content. 

Shortly after my return to New York from an expe¬ 
dition to the sites of some old Inca towns in South 
America, I was sitting in my room when my servant 
brought to me a card which bore the name “Alfred 
Ferguson,” who, I was informed, was waiting to see me. 
The name was unknown to me, but I bade the servant 
bring the visitor to my room. 

A few moments later my caller entered. He was a 
tall, long-limbed man, of about twenty-eight years of age. 
His long face was almost as bronzed as my own. He 
stooped slightly, and there was a slouchiness about his 


70 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


clothes and gait that gave to him a “devil-may-care” 
appearance that did not impress me favorably. His blue 
eyes were shrewd enough, however, and as, throwing 
aside the newspaper I had been reading, I met his gaze, 
I saw that he was looking at me with an expression that 
was frankly earnest and critical. 

“Mr. Ferguson?” I asked as I rose. 

“Yes, yes, I’m Ferguson,” he replied, half-absently. 
“You are Forsythe, the traveler, I believe.” 

His accent was unmistakably that of an Englishman. 
I nodded and moved a chair toward him. He seated him¬ 
self deliberately and began to fumble in one of the pockets 
of his coat. From this he drew a cigar-case, which, when 
he had opened it, he offered to me. The cigars were 
large and as black as the skin of an Ethiopian. Selecting 
one, I thanked him and offered him matches. 

Neither of us spoke again until our cigars were lighted. 

“Well, now, Mr. Ferguson, what can I do for you?” I 
asked, pleasantly. 

He did not answer at once. The expression of abstrac¬ 
tion was still on his face and, as I puffed on the strong 
cigar he had given me, I watched him curiously. At 
length, in a voice that was so sullen that the words seemed 
to be uttered against his will, he said: 

“I want you to go with me to India.” 

“To India!” I exclaimed. 

“Yes. We’ll start to-morrow—on the Camperdonia. 
If we leave the ship at Queenstown and cut across by the 
mail route to London, we will be able to get the P. & O. 
liner that sails to-morrow week.” 

“Indeed!” I murmured, coldly. 

My visitor, apparently discomfited by my tone, looked 
at me anxiously. 

“You have nothing else on, I hope,” he said, shortly. 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 71 


Why, no—nothing in the way of a business engage¬ 
ment, I replied. “But, before I take under considera¬ 
tion the proposition you have just made, I must, of course, 
know something of the purpose of the journey.” 

“I will explain it,” he replied, promptly. “You have 
been in India, I believe.” 

“Yes,” said I. 

“While there did you visit the district of Nauwar?” 
he asked. 

I told him I had not done so. 

“In that district is a village named Rajiid,” he went on. 

“I have heard of it,” I said. “It is there, I believe, 
that the statue known as the Eyeless Buddha is to be 
found.” 

My visitor looked at me coldly for several moments. 

“True,” he replied. “It is in the temple of Rajiid 
that the Eyeless Buddha is to be seen. The village is 
so remote from the routes of the average traveler, how¬ 
ever, that I was not aware that anyone outside India 
knew of its existence.” 

“The little knowledge I have of the place was obtained 
from an old English colonel I met at Simla one Summer,” 
I explained. 

“What did he tell you of the Eyeless Buddha?” asked 
my visitor, carelessly. 

“Why, as I remember it, he told me that the statue 
was of bronze and about a thousand years old,” I an¬ 
swered. “It is said that the eye-sockets, which are empty 
now, at one time held diamonds of great value.” 

“Did this Colonel tell you how they came to be lost?” 
asked Ferguson. 

“They disappeared at the time of the Indian Mutiny,” 
I replied. “This, I think, constitutes all the information 
which I have concerning Rajiid and the Eyeless Buddha.” 


72 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


Ferguson nodded, compressed his lips slightly, then 
rose and crossed to one of the windows. As he looked 
out, I watched him curiously. 

There was something in the aspect of my visitor that 
impressed me more and more unfavorably, and I was 
attempting to formulate some excuse for my inability to 
undertake the journey he had proposed when he turned 
to me suddenly. 

“Well, Mr. Forsythe, the situation is this,” he began. 
“In Rajiid there are certain articles of exceptional arche¬ 
ological interest that I want to acquire.. I doubt not that 
these may be purchased readily and removed from India 
by a man who already is known as a collector of such 
objects for institutions of learning. In India there is 
no law prohibiting the removal of art objects from the 
country, as there is in Italy, but in order to acquire 
certain of these it is often essential first to obtain the 
approval of the proper authorities. These authorities, in 
India, are known to you, and, in view of the distinction 
which you have won as a collector, they doubtless would 
grant to you privileges which it would be idle for me to 
seek.” 

“You have been in Rajiid?” I asked. 

“No,” he replied. “Not only have I not been in Rajiid, 
but I have never set foot in India.” 

“And yet you have reason to believe that this obscure 
village possesses objects of exceptional interest,” I said. 

He shrugged his shoulders, and, for the first time since 
he had entered the apartment, I saw him smile. 

“Yes,” he answered. “If you will aid me in getting 
possession of these objects, you will be well paid for 
your trouble.” 

“Ah, it is a speculative enterprise, then!” I murmured. 

“So far as I am concerned, perhaps it is,” he answered 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 73 


quickly. “You, however, will be sure of your reward. 
The task will occupy less than three months. If you wilL 
give me your services for that period, I will pay you ten 
thousand dollars to-day. Besides this I will place a like 
amount in a package which I will deliver to you with the 
understanding that you put it in a safe-deposit vault to 
which I am to have a duplicate key. You will not tell 
me, however, where this vault is to be found.” 

“Why, then, do you require the key?” I asked 
suspiciously. 

My visitor shrugged his shoulders. 

“It may be that you will lose yours,” he replied, with 
a little laugh. “It is not well to carry all one’s eggs in 
the same basket, you know.” 

“What is your purpose in leaving the ten thousand 
dollars with me?” I inquired. 

“It will be yours when our work is done,” he answered. 

“You are willing to leave it in my care with nothing 
more than a verbal understanding?” I asked wonder- 
in g ly. 

“I trust you implicitly,” said he. “Your reputation 
is well known to me. I require no better evidence of 
your good faith than that. Are the terms I propose satis¬ 
factory?” 

I was thoroughly interested now. The enterprise 
promised to be more remunerative than any in which I 
had engaged, but it was not this fact that appealed to 
me so much as the nature of the adventure itself. There 
was something in the personality of my visitor, too, that 
now excited my curiosity. 

“Well, Forsythe, what do you say?” he asked, as I 
hesitated. 

I rose and for several moments I thoughtfully paced to 
and fro. 


74 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


“In short, then, it is your design to try and recover the 
gems which formerly constituted the eyes of the Rajiid 
Buddha,” I muttered. 

“I have not said so,” he answered, coldly. “My object 
in seeking your services has been pretty clearly stated, I 
think. Your purpose will be to secure and bring out of 
India certain articles, possessing archeological interest, 
which, from time to time, I will indicate.” 

“I see,” I answered shortly. 

“You will accompany me, then?” he asked. 

“Yes,” I replied. 

“And you will be prepared to sail on the Camperdonia 
to-morrow?” 

“Yes.” 

He nodded. 

“The vessel sails at noon,” he said. 

Then, thrusting a hand into an inside pocket of his 
coat, he drew out a package and continued: 

“In this package you will find banknotes amounting to 
fifteen thousand dollars. Of this sum, ten thousand be¬ 
longs to you. The other five thousand will defray the 
cost of your trip from New York to Bombay, Rajiid and 
thence to Bombay again.” 

Placing this on the table, he drew from his pocket a 
second package. 

This, he explained, contained the second ten thousand 
dollars which were to be mine on my return from India. 
He made me count the banknotes, and, as these were of 
large denominations, the task soon was completed. They 
amounted to the sum he had named. 

In accordance with his instructions, I was about to put 
the package in a box, which I took from my desk, when 
he asked me to slip into the box a little cylindrical parcel, 
about six inches long and three inches in diameter. With- 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 75 


out questioning him as to the nature of the contents of 
the parcel, I did as he requested. The box containing the 
second ten thousand dollars and the parcel was then 
wrapped in a heavy piece of brown paper. When this had 
been securely tied, Ferguson produced a stick of sealing- 
wax and, sealing the knot and the sides of the little 
bundle, he pressed a seal-ring to the soft wax. When he 
had finished, he smiled gravely and placed the bundle in 
my hand. 

“Upon our return I will ask you to deliver to me, 
unopened, the parcel I have enclosed with the money,” he 
said. “It is only a trifle, but, as it is all I am leaving 
behind, I will be extremely obliged if you will see that it 
is cared for.” 

I told him that I would place the bundle in a safe- 
deposit vault, and would let him have a duplicate key on 
the following day. 

“No, you will not do that,” he replied with a little 
laugh. “We will not meet again until we are in India. 
Put the key in an envelope and address it to me at my 
hotel—the Claymore. A district messenger will deliver 
it.” 

“But are we not to sail together on the Camperdonia 
to-morrow?” I asked with some surprise. 

“Both of us will sail on the Camper donia; but, in order 
that even chance may not bring us together, you will go 
in the first cabin, and I wall go in the second. It is scarcely 
likely that you will see me during the voyage. When you 
disembark at Queenstown, do not try to assure yourself 
that I am among those who, like you, will take the train 
and boat to Holyhead. Your movements must be entirely 
independent of mine. When you get to London, secure 
first-class passage by the P. and O. liner Arran for Bom¬ 
bay. Though I will also be on the vessel, it is altogether 


76 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


probable that you will not see me. Before we arrive at 
our destination, however, we will be in communication.” 

He held out his hand, and, as I took it, he bowed 
gravely. 

“Bon voyage” he said, with a smile. And a few 
minutes later I was alone, pondering over my strange 
commission. 

I began at once to make preparations for my departure. 
One of my first acts was to deposit in a bank the ten 
thousand dollars that had been advanced to me, and to 
place in a safe-deposit box the package that had been 
sealed by my visitor. I obtained two keys to the box, 
and, placing one of these in a pocket-book that I intended 
to take with me on my trip, I sent the other by a messenger 
to the Claymore. My other preparations for the journey, 
including the purchase of my steamship ticket, were 
completed by nightfall. 

It is unnecessary to relate any of the incidents of my 
voyage to England, for none of these had any bearing on 
the mission on which I had set out. Only once during 
that voyage did I find any evidence of Ferguson’s presence 
on the vessel. This was about ten o’clock at night, on 
our third day out. On this occasion I saw him standing 
alone on the moonlit deck, in the second cabin section. As 
he turned to go below our glances met for a moment, but 
he vouchsafed no sign of recognition. 

Upon disembarking at Queenstown I saw my employer 
on the tender which was to take us to the shore, but he 
was then looking in another direction, and, in order to 
avoid him, I went aft. Though he doubtless was on the 
train that carried me through Ireland, I did not see him, 
and it was in vain that I looked for him on the boat that 
took me from Dublin to Holyhead, and on the train from 
Holyhead to London. 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 77 

The following day found me aboard the Arran, bound 
for Bombay. On the second day out I became acquainted 
with Frank Blakeslee, a young Englishman. He was an 
affable sort of chap, and though he, rather than I, made 
the advances which resulted in our almost constant com¬ 
panionship, I soon discovered that he had little disposition 
to become acquainted with other passengers. 

Moved by a curiosity which I found to be irresistible, 
I made several quiet attempts to learn whether Ferguson 
was on the ship. As was the case on the Camperdonia, 
his name did not appear on either the first or second cabin 
lists, and, despite the instructions he had given to me, I 
once went so far as to stroll through the second-cabin 
saloons and smoking-room in an attempt to reassure 
myself concerning his presence on the vessel. All efforts 
to get a trace of him were vain. 

It was not till we had passed through the Suez Canal 
that all my doubts were set at rest. Then the revelation 
of Ferguson’s presence came to me in a manner and from 
a source so wholly unexpected that the intelligence fairly 
staggered me. 

I was walking the deck shortly before luncheon, when I 
saw Blakeslee approaching me. His face was grave, and 
I observed at once that there was a nervousness in his 
manner that I had not remarked before. 

“What is the matter, man?” I asked. “Is this heat 
knocking you out?” 

He muttered two or three words incoherently, and 
glanced quickly to right and left, as if to assure himself 
that we were alone. Then, pausing beside me, he said in 
a low voice: 

“Ferguson won’t join us at Bombay. We’ll have to 
look for him at Aurungabad.” 

I gave a start, and looked at him wonderingly. 


78 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


“Then you know that-” I began. 

“Yes, yes—I know everything,” he said, interrupting 
me impatiently. 

“Is anything wrong?” I asked apprehensively. 

“Yes—no,” he faltered. “Well, there’s a Hindu aboard 
who has just committed suicide. They’ll be dropping him 
overboard presently, I suppose.” 

There was something in his manner—in his increasing 
nervousness and in his eyes, which were gleaming with 
excitement, that caused a feeling of foreboding to steal 
over me. 

“Ferguson is aboard?” I muttered. 

“Oh, yes—he’s aboard,” Blakeslee said, dryly, as he 
turned away. 

When I found myself again alone I fell to wondering 
whether the dead Hindu had been a friend or an enemy 
of Ferguson’s. That he was either the one or the other I 
did not for a minute doubt. 

I did not see Blakeslee again that day. From a steward 
I learned that his meals were being served to him in his 
room. It soon became apparent that if, indeed, a Hindu 
had committed suicide on the vessel, the fact was being 
guarded as a secret. 

We were then in the Red Sea, and the day was, I think, 
the most sultry I had ever known. Only after nightfall 
did the passengers go out on deck. When I turned into 
my berth, about ten o’clock, I soon found the atmosphere 
of my stateroom so stifling that it was impossible for me 
to sleep. 

About eleven o’clock I rose, donned a light linen suit 
and went out on deck. There I found scores of my fellow 
passengers tossing restlessly as they lay on steamer chairs, 
and in a few minutes I was doing likewise. 

It was well after midnight when, waking from a brief 



THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 79 


and troubled sleep, I saw that many of the passengers had 
left the deck. I rose impatiently and, crossing to the rail, 
I leaned over it and gazed down at the water. I had been 
in this position for several minutes when I heard the 
sounds of low voices and shuffling feet on the deck below. 
Suddenly these were stilled, and I saw a dark object being- 
thrust slowly over the rail of the deck. 

In a moment the significance of the situation became 
clear to me. The body of the dead Hindu was about to 
be committed to the sea. 

All was over in a few moments. The board on which 
lay the shotted sack, with its gruesome burden, was soon 
run out. There was a splash—a little trail of bubbles 
moving swiftly astern, to be lost in the white wake of the 
vessel, and the thing was done. None of the other pas¬ 
sengers on the deck on which I stood was aware of the 
fact that a sea burial had now become one of the incidents 
of the voyage. 

It was not until the following afternoon that I again 
met Blakeslee, who, on this occasion, greeted me with 
much of his former cheerfulness. 

“Well, how is our friend to-day?” I asked quietly, after 
we had exchanged a few commonplace remarks. 

An expression of sullenness crossed his face as he 
answered shortly: 

“I don’t know.” 

“You haven’t seen him since yesterday?” I persisted. 

“I have not seen him since we came aboard the Arran ” 
he replied. 

“But—well, then, how did you know about that Hindu 
they buried last night?” I asked. 

“Because it has been one of my tasks to watch all 
Hindus on this vessel, and it has been no easy matter, I 
assure you. There are more than thirty of them, but I 


80 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


think the one that died yesterday was the only one we 
had to fear.” 

For several moments neither of us spoke. I was the 
first to break the silence. 

“Are we likely to encounter others whom we will have 
to—fear?” I asked. 

Blakeslee laughed unpleasantly. 

“I’m afraid we won’t be altogether popular with some 
of the natives of the country,” he answered. “Still, I 
don’t think there is much that we really will have to fear. 
So long as we are successful in our attempts to prevent 
the brown men from learning the nature of our business, 
I daresay there will be no trouble.” 

“Well, if you and Ferguson are as successful in keeping 
that secret from those fellows as you are in your efforts 
to keep it from me, there is little doubt that all trouble 
will be averted," I said gravely. 

Blakeslee shrugged his shoulders. 

“Everything will be made clear to you soon enough,” 
he answered, abstractedly. “The task that confronts us 
is comparatively simple, and I doubt not that Ferguson 
has explained to you all that it will be necessary for you 
to know in order that you may act intelligently. He wishes 
you to purchase, and to get out of India, certain articles 
that appear to have little intrinsic value, but which natives 
may try to prevent us from taking away.” 

“Our quest may prove hazardous, then,” I said. 

“Oh, yes,” Blakeslee answered, cheerfully, “it is likely 
to prove quite hazardous, but, from what I have heard of 
you, Mr. Forsythe, I should infer that you are scarcely 
likely to balk at it for that reason.” 

“I am not inclined to balk at it,” I retorted, “but, like 
most men, I prefer meeting danger in the light rather 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 81 


than in the dark. A man always fights better when his 
enemies and their methods are known to him.” 

Blakeslee was silent for several moments, then, with a 
sigh, he said: 

“Well, Forsythe, India is a remarkable country, and 
some of its people have peculiar mental qualities which 
enable them to do strange things. That there is something 
concerning our enterprise that Ferguson has not told you, 
I will not deny. Though he has implicit confidence in 
you, he has excellent reasons for withholding the secret 
from you. In your own interest, as well as his and mine, 
it is best that you should not know it now. Believe me, 
if that knowledge was yours it would be difficult for you 
to keep from revealing it to those persons from whom we 
have most to fear.” 

Despite a natural feeling of resentment, I affected to 
treat the matter lightly, and the conversation soon turned 
to other subjects. 

The city of Bombay was in sight before I received the 
promised communication from Ferguson. This came to 
me through Blakeslee, who, entering the stateroom in 
which I was packing my things, said in a low voice: 

“I met Ferguson last night, and I am afraid we have 
plenty of trouble cut out for us. He will not accompany 
us to Rajiid.” 

“He will not?” I exclaimed in a tone of disappoint¬ 
ment. “The expedition is off, then?” 

“Not at all,” Blakeslee replied. “In order to give him 
an opportunity to precede us, we will remain for three 
days at Bombay. This will give you time to renew your 
acquaintance with the Indian authorities, and to let it be 
known that you have come to India for the purpose of 
adding to some American museum a collection of Indian 
curiosities. Make as much stir about it as you like. The 


82 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


better known you are, the more likely you will be to prove 
successful in your quest. As I have served in the Indian 
army, and as I am familiar with the country’s language 
and modes of travel, we may cause it to be understood 
that you have employed me to aid you in obtaining certain 
data that you seek.” 

To this plan I readily assented, and as soon as we were 
landed in Bombay I at once proceeded to put it into 
execution. 

Except for such incidents as might have befallen other 
travelers, our journey to Rajiid was comparatively un¬ 
eventful. It took us nine days, and when we arrived at 
our destination we found a miserable little town which, 
having been visited by a plague the year before, had been 
nearly depopulated by death and desertion. 

The temple was easily found, and, as Blakeslee was 
confident that we soon would get some word from Fergu¬ 
son, we established our quarters in a dak-bungalow on 
the outskirts of the village. 

With us we had brought eight native attendants, nearly 
all of whom were Brahmins. We had fourteen sturdy 
horses, and we believed that two of these would be suffi¬ 
cient to bear away all the articles which we would have 
occasion to purchase during our sojourn in the village. 

We were not long in discovering that, rapid as had 
been our progress, a stranger, answering Ferguson’s 
description, had arrived at the village two days before 
and, after visiting the temple, had disappeared. We also 
learned that he had seemed to manifest little interest in 
what he had seen. 

Accompanied by Blakeslee, I visited the temple a few 
hours after our arrival in the village. It was a small, 
unpretentious affair, and a mere glance at the dilapidated 
structure was enough to convince me that it had consti- 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 83 


tuted only a small part of the original building. In it, 
however, stood the idol known as the Eyeless Buddha. 

In this figure the founder of the religion which bears 
his name was represented as sitting crosslegged on a rug, 
with his folded hands lying in his lap. The figure was of 
dark bronze, and measured about eight feet from the 
top of the head to the top of the stone pedestal on which 
it was resting. The heavy eyelids were partly lowered, and 
under each was a dark orifice which, it was apparent, at 
one time had contained some object that was designed to 
represent a human eye. These empty sockets had given 
to the figure the name by which it now was known—the 
Eyeless Buddha. The statue was more crudely molded 
than many other images of Buddha I had seen, but the 
sullen features and eyeless sockets of this gave to it a 
sinister expression which, for a few moments, excited 
within me a sensation of awe. 

Like all temples in India, this had its quota of per¬ 
sistent beggars and fakirs. Among these we distributed 
a couple of handfuls of small coins, but the money, so far 
from granting us immunity from their importunities, 
caused them to thrust their disgusting hands still closer 
to our faces and redouble their cries. 

Apprehensive lest an exhibition of violence would excite 
the resentment of persons whose favor it was desirable 
that we should win, Blakeslee and I restrained our at¬ 
tendants, who were preparing to use sticks in an attempt 
to drive off our annoyers. 

Suddenly, however, the clamor of the mendicants grew 
still. The throng drew back, and from it issued the figure 
of an old native, who wore a white turban and loin-cloth. 
His face, almost as brown as mahogany, was partly cov¬ 
ered by a scanty white beard. His eyes were deep-set, 
searching, and crafty. 


84 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


I had little doubt that the man who thus challenged 
our attention was a jaboowallah, one of India’s miracle- 
working fakirs, and such he soon proved to be. He be¬ 
sought us to allow him to give an exhibition of his 
powers, and though we had seen most of the tricks prac¬ 
tised by members of his class, we granted him the per¬ 
mission he sought. The tricks he showed us are common 
enough to all visitors to India—tricks which, though 
hundreds of thousands have seen them, never have been 
satisfactorily explained to Europeans. 

This jaboowallah was neither better nor worse than a 
score of others we had seen before. We saw him plant a 
mango seed, and within six minutes it had grown, flow¬ 
ered, and borne fruit before our eyes. Then we beheld 
him seated crosslegged in the air, apparently without sup¬ 
port, four or five feet above the surface of the ground. 
Later he placed a ring in Blakeslee’s hand. In a few 
minutes this was dust, then virgin gold again. 

When all was done, we gave a few coins to the jaboo¬ 
wallah, and, in consideration of the fact that the pay¬ 
ment was rather in excess of that usually given by 
travelers, we asked him to keep the crowd of mendicants 
away from us—a task which he performed to our satis¬ 
faction. 

That night there came to the dak-bungalow a half- 
naked Parsee. This man gave to me a letter, written in 
English, and bearing the name of Ferguson. The Tetter 
was as follows:—■ 

The bearer of this is Ahmed-Kal, a Parsee, the only person I have 
met in this sun-baked land of snakes who can be trusted. Communi¬ 
cate with me through him. 

The articles I want you to purchase are the brazier and the two 
green jade images in the shrine. Be sure to land the one with the 
protruding tongue in the niche near the roof. This must be obtained 
without fail, and, when you get it, keep a careful eye on it, but do 
not let anyone suspect that you set any great value on it. Deliver 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 85 


this to me outside of India, and the ten thousand dollars I left with 
you are yours. 

Offer only a small price at first for the brazier and images. Brah- 
minism has practically ousted Buddhism from this locality and one 
easily could buy the Eyeless Buddha itself for little more than a 
song, were it not for the fact that it is supposed that one day its 
presence here will attract travelers. 

I will send Ahmed-Kal to you to-morrow night to learn whether 
or not you have secured the articles I have named. Be prepared to 
set out for Calcutta early the following morning. I will not accom¬ 
pany you, and I doubt whether I will see you in India. 

Burn this note at once. Do not write to me. Ahmed-Kal will 
report to me that he has seen you. 

(signed) Ferguson. 

I nodded to Ahmed-Kal as I finished reading. He 
bowed profoundly, but made no move to go. When I 
asked him why he waited, he replied in a voice which, 
though respectful, was expressive of reproach: 

“The sahib has not burned it.” 

I quickly held the paper over a lighted candle, but not 
till the last charred corner of the letter fell from my 
fingers did Ferguson’s punctilious messenger withdraw 
from the bungalow. 

On the morrow I visited the temple again, and had no 
difficulty in identifying the objects which Ferguson had 
directed me to purchase. The brazier was about three 
feet high, and was an admirable example of Indian art. 

The two jade idols, both of which stood in niches near 
the dilapidated roof, were companion-pieces, about four¬ 
teen inches in height, each measuring about eight inches 
across the shoulders. The figures were grotesque, one 
being that of a big-bellied man, with a diabolical leer; 
while the other, somewhat similar in design, had an impu¬ 
dently protruding tongue. The grotesque appearance of 
the images was increased by a large number of cracks, 
which indicated that they had been shattered and their 
fragments cemented together. 

As soon as I told the temple’s custodian that I was a 


86 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


collector of jade idols, he hastened to remove these from 
their niches and began to descant on their merits. 

“But these are not for sale,” I remarked. 

“The temple needs rupees, sahib,” replied the priest 
in a soft, insinuating voice. 

When I offered twenty silver rupees for the pair he de¬ 
manded forty. We finally agreed on twenty-five rupees. 
The brazier I obtained for thirty rupees, and to this col¬ 
lection I added several small bronze and jade images, 
which I thought might serve as paper-weights for my 
friends. The priest and I then parted cordially, and sev¬ 
eral of my native attendants, bearing my purchases, ac¬ 
companied Blakeslee and me back to the dak-bungalow. 

Thus far my enterprise had been successful, and on 
the way from the temple to the bungalow Blakeslee and 
I chatted cheerfully, but, owing to the presence of our 
attendants, the subject of our quest was not referred to. 

As Blakeslee and I entered the bungalow, to seek pro¬ 
tection from the heat and blinding glare of the sun, 
I saw a change come over the face of my companion. 
His features became suddenly haggard, and there was a 
strange glitter in his eyes. 

“Well, Forsythe, for better or for worse we’re in for 
it now,” he said in a low voice that trembled slightly with 
emotion. 

I looked at him wonderingly. 

“What, in Heaven’s name, is depressing you now?” I 
asked, irritably. “Have we not succeeded, almost with¬ 
out making a real effort, in getting the articles we sought ? 
As soon as we get word to Ferguson that we have car¬ 
ried out his instructions, we will start for home. The 
letters which I obtained from the government officials at 
Bombay will assure us safe conduct.” 

Blakeslee glanced at me half-contemptuously. 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 87 


“My dear fellow, our fight is just about to begin,” he 
said, thoughtfully. “Neither Ferguson nor I looked for 
trouble on the journey here, nor did Ferguson fear that 
you would have any difficulty in obtaining the articles 
which now are in your possession. To be perfectly frank 
with you, the value of these is as unknown to me as it 
is to you.” 

With a glance toward the corner of the room in which 
lay, like a heap of junk, the articles I had purchased that 
morning, I went to the door and looked out. Our at¬ 
tendants were unsaddling and watering our horses at the 
foot of the hill, and the space around the bungalow was 
deserted. Turning back to the room in which Blakeslee, 
with his hands clasped over one of his knees, was sitting 
on a rude table, I spoke. 

“Ferguson is seeking those lost eyes of the Buddha?” 
I said. 

Blakeslee gazed at me fixedly, but did not answer. 

“Has it not occurred to you that they may be concealed 
in the two jade images that our friend is so anxious to 
obtain?” I asked. 

My companion’s gaze fell thoughtfully to the floor. 

“It has occurred to me, of course,” he answered quietly, 
after a pause. “But I have rejected the idea. I am in¬ 
clined to believe that Ferguson is using us simply as a 
blind to cover other movements that he has afoot. The 
images do not appear to be any more important than the 
brazier, which, as a mere glance at it will assure you, is 
not constructed in a manner that will allow it to conceal 
anything. Ferguson is a pretty clever strategist, and I 
have reasons to suspect that, before we get through with 
this thing, we will find that he is trying to attain his 
object by means of crossed trails.” 

“What reason is there for crossing trails when my 


88 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


reputation and the arrangements I have made with the 
government officials appear to give us a clear course to 
Calcutta?” I asked. 

Blakeslee shrugged his shoulders. 

“Em hanged if I know, Forsythe,” he muttered, 
abstractedly. “Ferguson is a queer fellow, and he’s pretty 
deep. The thing that puzzles me most is the fact that he 
is in India. For the last two years he has been watched 
by spies. That was one of them they dropped overboard 
from the Arran. If these two idols and the brazier were 
the only things he wanted here, why did he not send us 
to get them, and keep away himself?” 

“Well,” I began, but he stopped me with a gesture. 

“We’ve got to cut out this sort of talk,” he said, impa¬ 
tiently. “We have the stuff we sought, and now the thing 
is up to Ferguson. If we continue to speculate like this 
on the subject, some long-eared native, who may be lurk¬ 
ing about, will overhear us and the game will be up. The 
fight’s on now and we must make the best of it. Open 
eyes and silent tongues constitute the order of the day, so 
we’d better bar the talking.” 

At noon we had our luncheon. Then, after telling our 
attendants to rest for the remainder of the day, in order 
that they might be prepared to take the road before sun¬ 
rise on the following morning, Blakeslee and I stretched 
ourselves on our rugs. After a brief period of restless¬ 
ness I fell asleep. 

It was twilight when I woke. Blakeslee was still asleep, 
and I glanced apprehensively towards where our morn¬ 
ing’s purchases lay heaped carelessly in the corner, with 
one of our saddles resting on top of the pile. Nothing 
appeared to have been disturbed, but I resolved that while 
Blakeslee and I remained in India one should keep awake 
while the other slept. 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 89 


An hour later we sat down to our evening meal, and 
then proceeded to await the arrival of Ahmed-Kal. 

It was nearly midnight, and all our attendants were 
asleep, when Blakeslee and I, seated within the dak-bunga¬ 
low, saw by the light of the moon the figure of a native, 
in a half-crouching attitude, dart towards the door. 

“Well?” I demanded, rising quickly. 

The man started at the sound of my voice, and, as he 
looked toward me, I saw that our visitor was Ahmed-Kal. 
Drawing back a couple of paces, he crossed his arms over 
his face. 

Alarmed by the man’s strange attitude, I addressed him 
impatiently. 

“Well, why do you not speak?” I asked. 

With a low, sharp cry the Parsee, lurching forward, 
sank to the earth and, crawling to my feet, he scraped up 
a handful of sand from the ground and scattered it over 
his head. 

Grasping him by one of his naked shoulders I shook 
him vigorously. 

“Speak, man—your master—what has happened to 
him?” I demanded. 

The Parsee gave utterance to a series of incoherent 
sentences, then he again crossed his arms over his face. 

Again I seized him and shook his shoulders. 

“Where is the Ferguson sahib?” I asked, in a threaten¬ 
ing voice. 

“They’ve killed him,” whimpered Ahmed-Kal. 

“Killed him!” Blakeslee and I exclaimed together. 

“Even so,” moaned the Parsee. 

The eyes that Blakeslee turned on me were dilated with 
horror. 

“Dead—Ferguson!” he muttered. No, no, no! This 


man 



90 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


“Not dead, sahib—not dead, for he still speaks/' 
Ahmed-Kal interrupted. 

We looked at the Par see with expressions of 
bewilderment. 

“You said he was killed?” I suggested. 

“Even so, sahib. They have killed him, but he still 
speaks, and he bade me summon you to come and see the 
end.” 

“How the dev—” Blakeslee began. 

“There’s no use standing here trying to get rational 
answers from the fool,” I interrupted. “Let’s mount and 
follow where he leads.” 

Our horses soon were saddled. Preceded by Ahmed-Kal 
and followed by two of our servants, Blakeslee and I set 
out in search of Ferguson. 

As we advanced in this manner, Ahmed-Kal, from 
time to time, manifested signs of the most abject fear. 
His trembling, groans and sudden starts at length had 
such an effect on my nerves that, like him, I fancied, at 
times, that I saw dark figures flitting among the thickets 
we passed. 

Once a piercing wail, coming from a point about a 
hundred yards distant from the road, so startled Blakeslee 
and me that we drew in our bridle-reins with a force that 
almost caused our horses to go down on their haunches. 

“It is only the cry of a jackal, sahib,” said one of our 
servants reassuringly. 

Even as the man spoke, we saw a small, wolfish form 
loping from one thicket to another, but it was several 
minutes before the feeling of creepiness passed away and 
our heartbeats again became normal. 

At the expiration of a half-hour we came in view of a 
little grove of trees, among which the walls of a small 
temple gleamed white in the moonlight. To this temple a 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 91 


narrow path led from the road by which we approached 
the place. At the path Ahmed-Kal drew rein. Then, after 
dismounting, he came to me. 

'‘This ground is sacred, sahib/’ he explained. “None 
save uncovered feet may tread this path.” 

I nodded; then Blakeslee and I alighted and, after 
directing our attendants to await our return, we com¬ 
manded Ahmed-Kal to lead the way. 

“What are we in for now, I wonder?” Blakeslee 
muttered. “I’ve got this trembling fool covered with my 
gun, and if he’s up to any of his Hindu tricks it will be 
his last, I promise you.” 

Following our guide, we had gone about a couple of 
hundred paces when Blakeslee seized me by the arm. 

“Look!” he cried. 

We were now in a little open space in the grove that 
surrounded the temple, and, glancing in the direction that 
Blakeslee had indicated, I saw, in one of the corners of 
this space, a human figure seated cross-legged on a white 
cloth. The figure was as immovable as one of those 
statues of Buddha which are to be seen everywhere in 
India, and the shadow cast by one of the swaying branches 
of a tree gave to it an uncanny aspect that chilled my 
blood. 

Blakeslee and I, followed by Ahmed-Kal, moved for¬ 
ward uncertainly. 

“It’s Ferguson!” exclaimed Blakeslee in a hoarse 
whisper. 

We quickened our steps, and in a few moments we 
halted before the motionless and silent figure of our 
friend. 

Neither by word nor sign did Ferguson bespeak a 
recognition of our presence. His face was deadly pale, 
and there was an expression of stupor in his eyes. 


92 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


‘‘Ferguson!” I said, in a low, awed voice; and, as I 
spoke, I was about to lay a hand on his shoulder to rouse 
him from his apparent lethargy. 

“Stop!” he commanded sharply. “Don’t touch me, 
Forsythe. Step round in front of me. I cannot turn my 
head. 

“What’s the matter, old man?” Blakeslee asked. “What 
have they done to you? That fool, Ahmed-Kal, told us 
that you had been murdered.” 

Ferguson hesitated a few moments before he replied. 

“Ahmed-Kal was right. I have been slain.” 

“What madness is this?” I demanded, impatiently. 

“It is not madness, but truth,” Ferguson answered, 
sadly. “I have been slain.” 

Blakeslee and I exchanged glances of horror. It was 
plain that our friend had lost his reason. 

“Come, come, Ferguson, you would not have us believe 
that we are talking with your ghost,” said Blakeslee, 
indulgently. 

“No,” replied Ferguson, deliberately. “But, to all 
intents and purposes, I am a dead man. Were I to move 
my body, ever so slightly, the next moment would find me 
a corpse at your feet. The fact is, I have been decapitated. 
Though my head has been completely severed from my 
body, it has been done in such a manner that, while no 
human skill can save my life, I cannot die except by my 
own act.” 

Turning his haggard face to mine, Blakeslee said, 
quietly: 

“Come, Forsythe, we must get him out of this.” 

Ferguson heard the words. 

“Stop—Forsythe—Blakeslee!” he protested quickly. 
“Let there be no mistake. Blakeslee, strike a match; then 
examine my neck and tell me what you see.” 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 93 


With trembling hands, Blakeslee drew out his match¬ 
box and struck a match. By the light of this we saw a 
thin, dark, threadlike line that completely encircled the 
neck of our friend. From the line there had exuded drops 
of blood which had trickled down to Ferguson’s collar. 

With faces as pallid as that of our friend, Blakeslee 
and I drew back a couple of paces. The silence that 
followed was broken by Ferguson. 

“Well?” he asked. 

“It’s bleeding a little,” Blakeslee replied, speaking 
thickly. 

“It was good of you to answer my summons so 
promptly,” Ferguson went on. “Brief as our acquaintance 
has been, I was overjoyed to learn yesterday that chance 
had led you to India and that you were in this neighbor¬ 
hood. I had intended to seek you yesterday afternoon, 
but, before I could put my plan into execution, I met with 
the adventure which Fate had ordained should be my 
last.” 

As he paused, Blakeslee and I gazed at him searchingly. 
Was the man mad, or was he playing a part? Were the 
words he was addressing to us now reaching ears other 
than our own? 

“What was the nature of the adventure?” I asked. 

“Having been brought to India by certain business 
matters,” Ferguson continued, “I was tempted to travel a 
bit through the country. Several years ago I heard a 
traveler describe the Eyeless Buddha of Rajiid, and tell 
its strange story. Being in this neighborhood, I decided, 
a few days ago, to visit the shrine. It did not interest me 
greatly, and I was continuing on my way when I was 
halted to-day by a company of natives. These took me 
before a jaboowallah, who, on the day before, had per¬ 
formed some of his tricks before me at Rajiid. This 


94 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


man charged me with an attempt to find and take out of 
the country the lost diamonds which, many years before, 
formed the eyes of the Buddha. I protested my innocence, 
but to no avail. 

“Professing to believe that I already had found the 
hiding place of the diamonds, and had obtained possession 
of the stones, several natives, in accordance with the 
direction of the jaboowallah, searched my garments, and 
then subjected me to the most excruciating tortures in an 
attempt to wring from me information concerning the 
diamonds. In this attempt they failed, of course; for, 
though I had heard the story of the lost gems, the idea of 
attempting to find them never entered my mind. 

“At length my captors ceased their efforts, and, after 
granting me a rest of several hours, they brought me 
here, where I was again confronted by the jaboowallah. 
I was compelled to seat myself on this cloth and was told 
to prepare myself for death. 

“Taking a sword, the jaboowallah whirled it several 
times through the air, and then—then I was reduced to 
the plight in which you find me. 

“Though I felt the blade pass through my neck, I re¬ 
tained consciousness. My head did not fall, and my gaze 
was riveted on the mocking face of the jaboowallah as he 
drew back from me. He told me then that, though my 
head had been severed from my shoulders, I should not 
die save only by own act—that a single movement might 
result in the extinction of life. Then, with a devil-like 
laugh, he told me I might go when or where I listed. 

“I replied that, since this was impossible, my only wish 
was that I might be able to have my friends informed of 
my death. To this end, I asked permission to send for 
you, who, as I had been informed in the morning, were 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 95 


in the vicinity. He hesitated, but finally granted me the 
favor that I asked. 

“Ahmed-Kal, my Parsee servant, was standing near, 
and I bade him go to you, after I had received the 
jaboowallah’s assurance that no harm should befall you. 
And I thank Heaven that you and your friend Blakeslee 
have come at last.” 

There was a pause; then I asked, nervously: 

“What is it you would have us do?” 

“Merely report my death to Ormond Dulmer, my 
solicitor, in London. You will easily find him. You will 
do this?” 

I hesitated; then I turned to the trembling Ahmed-Kal. 

“Bid our attendants come here as quickly as they can,” 
I said to him. “They are armed and-” 

“Stop!” cried Ferguson. “Ahmed-Kal, stay here.” 

The Parsee, with a little cry, sank to the ground and 
crawled toward Ferguson’s feet. 

Drawing my revolver, I turned toward where I had 
left our attendants in the road. Then, raising my voice, I 
called one of them by name, intending to direct him to 
hurry to me with his companions. 

“Stop—Forsythe—fool!” cried Ferguson desperately. 

His words prevented me from hearing any response 
that might have been made to my summons. Giving no 
heed to his protest, I called again. 

The sound had scarcely left my lips when Blakeslee’s 
revolver flashed. For a moment the report dazed me; 
then, as I saw Blakeslee being set upon and borne down 
by four or five dark figures, who seemed to have issued 
from the ground, I raised my own weapon. But it was 
too late. Before my finger drew the trigger, a violent 
blow fell on my head. A thousand glints of light flashed 
before my eyes; and, as I blindly turned toward my 



96 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


assailant, a second blow felled me to the ground and I 
became unconscious. 

When I regained my senses, I was lying on the spot on 
which I had fallen. My head was throbbing slightly, and, 
as I opened my eyes, I saw the moon still was shining, but 
that the persons who had been around me when I fell were 
gone. As I started to rise, I was conscious of a pungent, 
sweet flavor in my mouth, and of a dull pain and sensation 
of fullness in my throat. My breathing was quick and 
labored. 

Rising to a sitting posture, I saw, only a couple of paces 
away, the white cloth on which I last had seen Ferguson. 
He, like Blakeslee and the natives, had disappeared; but 
in the middle of the cloth lay something which, arresting 
my gaze, inspired me with fear and horror. Rising to 
my feet, I moved toward it. 

It was the severed head of Ahmed-Kal! 

Breathing heavily, I took the path leading to the road 
in which Blakeslee and I had left our attendants. As I 
walked on, the sensation of fullness in my throat became 
more and more distressing. My tongue was swollen, and 
I was tortured by thirst and hunger. 

As I drew near the road, I saw our horses, with our 
servants beside them. A glance at the little company 
revealed the fact that Blakeslee was not there. 

Turning to one of the natives, I attempted to ask him 
why he and his companions had not responded to my call, 
but no sound issued from my lips, and the effort to speak 
racked my throat. 

At length I succeeded in whispering weakly: 

“Blakeslee Sahib? Have you seen him?” 

The native addressed shook his head negatively. 

“The sahib has not returned,” he said. 

As I glanced at the faces of the natives, I saw that a 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 97 


strange sullenness had come upon them, and instinct told 
me they were not to be trusted in an attempt to attack 
those who had obeyed the commands of the jaboowallah. 
Accordingly, I mounted my horse and, with my at¬ 
tendants, returned to the dak-bungalow. 

In the bungalow I found things in the same order in 
which I had left them. Despite my hunger, the condition 
of my throat made it impossible for me to swallow any¬ 
thing else than biscuits soaked in beef-tea. When this 
meal was finished, physical and mental exhaustion com¬ 
pelled me to lie down before I had succeeded in formulat¬ 
ing any definite plan for the morrow. I knew that there 
was no English-speaking official within forty miles of 
me, and it was doubtful whether, in my present condi¬ 
tion, I could accomplish such a journey over rough Indian 
roads in less than a couple of days. 

Scarcely had I lain down when one of my servants 
appeared. 

“Will the sahib leave Rajiid before sunrise?” he asked. 

“No,” I whispered. “We will wait.” 

The man left the room, and I composed myself for 
sleep. I had just sunk in a troubled doze, however, when 
I was aroused by someone who was shaking me gently. As 
I opened my eyes, I saw, by candlelight, the face of the 
jaboo wallah, who, as I had good reason to believe, was 
responsible for the misfortune that had befallen my 
friends and myself. 

“The sahib need not rise,” said the jaboo wallah gravely. 

But, giving no heed to his words, I sat up on the 
blanket on which I had been lying. 

“What are you doing here?” I demanded in a whisper 
that caused my throat to throb with pain. 

“I have come to the sahib to warn him,” my visitor 
replied. “If he returns to his own country at once, no 


98 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


further evil will come to him; but if he tarries in India, 
or causes the white king’s soldiers to come to Rajiid, he 
must die; and it is as easy for the holy men to kill him 
in Calcutta as it is to kill him here.” 

“Where is my friend—Blakeslee Sahib?” I asked. 

“He attempted to slay those who had punished one who 
came to us to desecrate our shrines—to take from us a 
priceless stone which did not belong to him.” 

“You miserable murderer—” I began, but, with 
hardening features, the jaboowallah interrupted me. 

“It was an evil hour that the man who came to steal 
learned that Forsythe Sahib and his friend were traveling 
here,” he said. “But now Forsythe Sahib must go his 
way alone, nor pause, except for rest, until he is on the 
vessel which is to take him home. He cannot bring the 
dead to life any more than he can recover that power of 
speech which has left him. What is written is written, 
and what is done is done. By sunrise the sahib must 
be on his way.” 

As he finished speaking, the jaboowallah blew out the 
candle that he held; then he passed out of the door. 

I sank back on my blanket, and for several minutes 
I lay inert. Convinced that the jaboowallah had spoken 
truth, and that my poor friends were indeed dead, I 
realized my helplessness. I was alone among strangers 
of another race, and there was little doubt that, in a 
sense, the jaboowallah had justice on his side. 

Ferguson had come to take from a sacred shrine a 
pair of precious gems to which he had no claim. It was 
perfectly apparent that he knew the adventure was 
fraught with peril. He had taken chances, and had 
failed. With me, however, guilty though I was, the 
case was somewhat different. The jaboowallah believed 
me to be innocent of complicity with Ferguson. Why, 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 99 


then, had he caused me to be subjected to treatment which 
was responsible for the loss of my voice? 

When I had returned to the bungalow, I lighted a 
candle and, with the aid of a pocket-mirror, examined 
my neck. There was nothing on the outside of my throat 
to indicate that it had been wounded. I then had fancied 
that my inability to speak had been caused by rough 
treatment after the last blow had robbed me of conscious¬ 
ness; but the jaboowallah, apparently cognizant of the 
nature of my injury, had told me that my voice had 
gone forever. 

At length, despite my mental turmoil, I succumbed to 
fatigue and physical weakness, and slept. 

Once again I was awakened by a hand that grasped 
my shoulder, and I saw, bending over me, with a candle 
in his hand, one of my attendants—the one who, a few 
hours before, had asked me whether I intended to set 
out on my journey before sunrise. Before I had time to 
ask him why he had awakened me, he spoke. 

‘‘The horses are saddled, sahib,” he said quietly. 

“What time is it?” I asked. 

“Two hours before sunrise, sahib.” 

As I looked at him searchingly, his gaze fell. 

“Who bade you prepare for the journey?” I asked. 

“The jaboowallah, sahib,” he answered. 

Conscious of my inability to offer resistance to the 
power that had robbed me of my friends and of my 
voice, I nodded and rose. Glancing toward the corner 
in which had been heaped the articles which, in accord¬ 
ance with Ferguson’s directions, I had purchased at the 
temple, I saw that they were gone. 

Apparently the man did not observe my glance, for he 
vouchsafed no explanation, and I asked no further ques¬ 
tions. 




> > 


100 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


Before leaving the bungalow I ate more moistened bis¬ 
cuits, and then went out to where the little company of 
attendants awaited me. These were already in their 
saddles; and, when I was mounted, all of us moved away 
from the bungalow. 

As we came to the outskirts of the village I saw the 
figure of a man standing beside the road. Drawing 
nearer, I recognized the jaboowallah. As our eyes met, 
the wonder-worker quickly sank to the ground and pros¬ 
trated himself at the roadside as I rode by. He was 
still on the ground when a turn in the road hid him from 
our view. 

With the exception of two incidents, my journey to 
Calcutta was uneventful. The first of these incidents 
occurred shortly after sunrise on the morning I left 
Rajiid. Glancing behind me I saw four led horses. The 
loads borne by three of these constituted, as I knew, the 
impedimenta we had taken with us to Rajiid. The 
fourth load, however, was covered, and I asked one of the 
natives what the pack contained. 

The man looked at me with an expression of surprise as 
he answered: 

“They are the brazier and the idols purchased from 
the priest at the Rajiid temple.” 

I made no answer, but an hour later I directed the 
servants to quicken their pace, and for the next four 
days we moved even more rapidly than we had done on 
our journey to Rajiid. 

The second incident occurred three days before my 
arrival at Calcutta. Ever since landing in India I had 
kept a diary in which I had recorded briefly each day’s 
incidents, being careful, of course, to make no mention 
of anything that had to do with the real object of my 
journey. On the day I have mentioned, I just had fin- 


c 


c 


c < 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 101 


ished making an entry when an official returned to me my 
passport, which he had vised. The date on this was 
the twenty-seventh of the month, while the entry I had 
made in the diary was dated the twenty-fifth. I called 
the man’s attention to what I then believed to be his 
error. He smiled and shook his head. 

“It is the twenty-seventh, sir,” he said. 

I bowed, and he left me. Turning over the pages of 
the diary, I was unable to find that I had made a mistake 
in dating the entries; then an idea occurred to me, and I 
turned to one of the two attendants who had accompanied 
me all the way from Rajiid. 

“How long was I with the jaboowallah?” I asked 
abruptly. 

“For two days the sahib was in the priest's house near 
the temple,” the man replied. “On the second night the 
sahib was placed in the same position in which he fell, 
and the jaboowallah bade us retire and wait for the 
sahib in the road.” 

I attempted to question him further, but he was so 
reticent that I learned little more. The next day he and 
his companion, who had been at Rajiid, deserted me. 
For the remainder of the journey I was attended only 
by servants I had picked up on the way to Calcutta. 

Immediately after my arrival at Calcutta, I hastened 
to an English physician and bade him examine my throat. 
As he did this, I saw an expression of gravity settle on 
his face. 

“How did this happen?” he asked sharply. “The vocal 
cords have been cut.” 

A cold sweat broke out on my forehead as I heard his 
words. Then I told him all. When I finished my account 
of the misadventures of my friends and myself, the 
physician shook his head gravely. 


102 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


“Such things do happen occasionally in India,” he said, 
“but in almost every case it has been proved that the 
natives have had justice on their side, and the govern¬ 
ment, assured of this, rarely adopts vigorous measures, 
for, in the circumstances, they would result in serious dis¬ 
affection in certain districts. It is better, perhaps, to 
heed the jaboowallah’s warning and leave the country, 
rather than to expose yourself to new misfortunes in an 
attempt to have your enemies punished—an attempt which 
I fear, would fail.” 

I decided, reluctantly enough, to take his advice, and 
five weeks later I was in London. 

I at once repaired to the office of Ormond Dulmer, the 
solicitor to whom Ferguson had directed me, and to him 
I gave a full account of my Indian adventures. Dulmer, 
who was an elderly, stolid sort of man, listened gravely 
to all I had to say, but neither by word nor by the expres¬ 
sion of his face did he manifest the slightest degree of 
surprise or emotion. In conclusion, I said : 

“And now, Mr. Dulmer, since I have told you all, noth¬ 
ing remains for me to do but to turn over to you the 
articles I purchased in Rajiid, and to refund to you the 
ten thousand dollars which Ferguson instructed me to 
deposit in New York until his return.” 

The lawyer raised a hand protestingly. 

“No,” he replied. “The ten thousand dollars are your 
own. The jade images and the brazier should be retained 
by you, however, until you receive from me other instruc¬ 
tions for their disposition. Ferguson was a peculiar 
fellow, and was very precise in his methods. In planning 
to have you get the images out of India, it is more than 
probable that he made arrangements for some person to 
claim them of you in the event of his premature death. 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 103 


Be good enough, please, to carry out his instructions to 
the letter.” 

I looked at Dulmer searchingly. 

“You do not believe that Ferguson is dead?” I asked. 

Dulmer shrugged his shoulders. 

“I know no more than you,” he replied. “Still, I 
scarcely think I will open his will until you and I obtain 
more definite evidence of his decease than is afforded by 
the testimony of your mutual enemy, the jaboowallah.” 

And so it came to pass that, a week later, I stood in my 
own room in New York, gazing speculatively at a brazier 
and two grotesque jade images that rested on the floor. 
My decision concerning these was quickly made. I re¬ 
solved to send them to a storage warehouse where they 
might remain until some one authorized to claim them 
should receive them from my hands. Having formed this 
resolution, I at once proceeded to put it into execution. 
Accordingly, I locked my door and went to the office of 
a storage company, where I made the necessary arrange¬ 
ments. It was agreed that a wagon should be sent to take 
the articles away early the next morning. 

I returned to my room after an absence of a little more 
than four hours. As I opened the door, however, I gasped 
with astonishment. 

The brazier and the images were gone! 

Thinking that, perhaps, the storage company had found 
it practicable to call for the articles that day, and remem¬ 
bering that, as I went out, I had told my landlady that I 
intended to send the things away, I was partly reassured. 
I hastened downstairs to the landlady, and learned from 
her that two Italians had come with a black, unlettered 
wagon, and had told her that I had directed them to call 
for the articles. 

I reported my loss to the police; but from that day to 


104 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


this, so far as I have been able to learn, no trace of the 
articles has been found by the detectives who were 
assigned to the case. 

And now new dangers began to beset me. On the day 
following the disappearance of the images, I became con¬ 
scious of the fact that I was under surveillance, and that 
no less than four men were employed for the purpose. 
Whenever I left the house in which I lodged—whether I 
walked or whether I rode in street-cars or cabs—some 
stranger would persistently keep me in view. These 
persons, I doubted not, were in the employ of some detec¬ 
tive agency that had undertaken to watch and report my 
movements. Why anyone should find it necessary to spy 
on me now I could not understand. 

I had been in New York only a week when, returning 
late to my room one night, I found all my effects in dis¬ 
order, and it was plain that everything belonging to me 
had been carefully searched. Some of my private papers 
were missing, tacks had been removed from the carpet, 
which appeared to have been turned back in an attempt to 
discover the hiding-place of some paper or other object. 
Despite all these facts, however, I found the door locked 
as I had left it. 

The next morning, before daybreak, I telephoned for a 
taxicab, and, entering it almost before it came to a stand¬ 
still in front of the house, I directed the man to take me 
to the City Hall. Then dismissing him, I crossed the 
Brooklyn Bridge, and, for the first time in a week, I con¬ 
gratulated myself that I had eluded the vigilance of the 
spies. In Brooklyn I engaged a couple of rooms in a 
modest dwelling-house at which I gave an assumed name. 

I remained indoors all day, and at night I went to a 
neighboring haberdasher’s to purchase articles of wearing 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 105 


apparel, for I had left my room in New York with 
scarcely more than the clothes I wore. 

Having made my purchases, I returned to the house I 
had left only a few minutes before. I had just thrust my 
key in the lock, and was preparing to turn it, when a hand 
fell on one of my shoulders. Turning quickly, I was 
confronted by a dusky face which was partly covered by 
a scant gray beard. 

It was the face of the jaboowallah of Rajiid! 

“The sahib will allow me to speak to him—in his 
room?” the strange man asked gravely. 

He wore a black derby and a suit of dark clothes; and, 
as I saw him then, he had the appearance of an aged 
negro. 

For several moments I was too overcome by astonish¬ 
ment and dismay to reply. 

“As you please,” I faltered as I turned the key. 

Then, leading the way, I conducted my persecutor to 
my room on the second floor. 

I turned up the gas and faced my visitor. 

“What brings you here?” I demanded abruptly. 

“I seek the lost eyes of the Buddha, sahib,” the 
jaboowallah answered. 

I looked at him wonderingly. 

“Why do you come to me?” I asked. 

“Because I have learned the Forsythe Sahib has them,” 
was the solemn answer. 

Utterly bewildered, I gazed into his burning eyes. 

“Not only have the gems you seek never been in my 
possession, but I have never seen them or heard anyone 
suggest a place where they were likely to be found,” I 
replied. 

“The sahib cannot deceive me,” said my visitor, 
sullenly. “Both gems have been in his possession. One 


106 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


was in the body of the jade image with the protruding 
tongue, which the sahib brought with him from India, 
and the other was in the little parcel left with him by the 
Ferguson Sahib on the day before he sailed for Europe.” 

The room swam before my eyes, and for several 
moments I was speechless. Then, with a trembling hand, 
I motioned to my visitor to sit down. He remained 
standing, but I, overcome by conflicting emotions, sank 
inertly on a couch. 

“The sahib has these, has he not?” the jaboowallah 
asked. 

“No,” I answered. “The image has been stolen from 
me, and the parcel is in the safe-deposit vault in which I 
was directed to place it by the man to whom it belonged.” 

The face of the jaboowallah grew darker. 

“Stolen!” he exclaimed. 

“The loss was reported by me to the police, who say 
they are trying to find the thief,” I explained. 

My visitor hesitated. 

“You will deliver the parcel to me?” he asked. 

“No,” I replied, “but I will lead you to the vault, and 
you may take it, if you will.” 

The jaboowallah nodded gravely. 

“Can you do this to-night?” he asked. 

“It will be impossible for me to have access to the vault 
until ten o’clock in the morning,” I explained. 

“I will be here at nine,” the jaboowallah said. 

He bowed profoundly, and then, without further 
words, he left me. 

I passed a restless night. In the morning I had break¬ 
fast served in my room. At nine the jaboowallah 
appeared. 

I summoned a taxicab, and, accompanied by my tor¬ 
mentor, I went to Manhattan. By ten o’clock we were in 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 107 


the office of the safe-deposit company. The vaults were 
in the basement, and to them we at once descended. There, 
giving a key to the jaboowallah, I pointed to the box I 
had engaged, and bade him open it. 

Glancing at the box as my companion drew it out, I 
saw that the seals, which Ferguson had affixed to the 
bundle, were broken. 

“Some one else has been here,” I whispered, fearfully. 

The eyes of the jaboowallah blazed with anger. 

“We will see,” he said, as he unfolded the wrapping 
paper. 

Within he found a package of banknotes—nothing 
more. 

As calmly as he had taken out the box, the jaboowallah 
returned it to its place. Then facing me, he said, quietly: 

“The sahib does not lie well. If the things have been 
stolen, the sahib has stolen from himself. Only ten days 
remain to him in which to restore the stones to the priests 
in whose keeping they belong. If they are not returned in 
this time, the holy men will place the eyes of the sahib in 
the empty sockets of the sacred image of Rajiid, and 
there they will remain until the lost gems are restored.” 

Stricken aghast by the awful threat, as well as by my 
helplessness, I made no attempt to reply. My visitor 
turned, ascended the stairs, and disappeared from my 
view; nor have I seen him since that hour. 

All that remains of my terrible story may be briefly 
told. 

My flight to Brooklyn had been in vain. Wherever I 
went I was watched by spies. I notified the police, and, 
on two occasions, I pointed out men whom I suspected of 
hounding me. They established their innocence, and I 
was discredited. The police then began to suspect that I 


108 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


had attempted to delude them when I reported the loss of 
the articles from my room. 

At length, convinced that the law would vouchsafe me 
no redress, I turned one day on one of the spies and 
attacked him so vigorously that I left him insensible on 
the pavement. I was arrested, subjected to an examina¬ 
tion, and pronounced to be a victim of delusions. When 
the court directed that I be sent to an insane asylum, 
friends came to my aid and had me placed in a sanitarium. 

By this time the ten days allowed to me for the restora¬ 
tion of the gems had expired; but, even though sur¬ 
rounded by madmen, I felt a sense of security in the 
institution to which I had been committed until, one 
morning, on looking through a window, I saw two 
strangers driving along the road. In one of them I recog¬ 
nized one of the spies who had been watching my move¬ 
ments in New York. Accordingly, I obtained an interview 
with the superintendent and told him my story. He ap¬ 
peared to give little credence to it, but two days later I 
learned that he had been severely wounded in an encounter 
with a Hindu whom he had found prowling about the 
grounds. The next night a mysterious fire consumed the 
wing of the building in which I had my room. 

Once more the superintendent sent for me, and in his 
presence and that of two strangers I repeated my story. 
This was many months ago. A week later I was released. 
Accompanied by the superintendent, I was taken to a 
house in which I found Mr. Westfall. There I remained 
carefully guarded, and in seclusion, until I was taken to 
his yacht, which brought me to this barge. 

When the Whispering Gentleman finished his narrative, 
the Nervous Physician pushed back his chair impatiently, 
and, rising, began to pace to and fro. 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 109 


“Absurd—utterly absurd!” he exclaimed, disgustedly. 
“Do you expect me to believe—any sane man to believe 
—that this blundering friend of yours continued to 
breathe and speak after the jaboowallah had decapitated 
him?” 

“I have not asked you to believe it,” replied the 
Whispering Gentleman, calmly. “I merely have described 
to you certain things which I have seen and heard.” 

The Duckhunter, turning to the Hypochondriacal 
Painter, who sat beside him, muttered grumpily: 

“An insane asylum is the best place for him, after all.” 

The Hypochondriacal Painter, making no reply, kept 
his wide, mournful eyes turned to Westfall, who was in 
the act of taking from Driggs, the servant, a large, 
covered, silver dish. This dish the host thrust toward the 
middle of the table, and then removed the cover. 

From that moment the voices of all Doubting Thomases 
were hushed. A long-drawn sigh seemed to issue from 
the company as each guest gasped for breath. By the 
removal of the dish’s cover, Westfall had revealed a 
cushion of purple velvet on which gleamed, like the frag¬ 
ments of a scintillating star, two diamonds as large as 
hen’s eggs. 

“My friends,” said Westfall gravely, “for these gems 
most women—aye, even those who wear queenly crowns 
—would sell their very souls. They are the lost eyes of 
Rajiid’s Buddha.” 

“In Heaven’s name—where—how did you come by 
these?” the Whispering Gentleman asked, tremulously. 

Westfall, laughing, shook his head. 

“For several weeks both were in your possession, my 
dear Forsythe,” he said. 

“In mine?” exclaimed the Whispering Gentleman, who 


110 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


was now the incarnation of bewilderment. “Did the 
j aboowallah-’ ’ 

“No,” replied Westfall, interrupting him. “I obtained 
them from a person who will now occupy the chair that 
has been reserved for the ninth guest, and from whose 
lips you will hear the story of the Decapitated Man.” 

As he spoke, all eyes turned toward the doorway. The 
curtains were seen to flutter; then the figure of a tall, 
gaunt man, with pallid cheeks and burning eyes, moved 
slowly down the steps. 

“Ferguson!” hissed the Whispering Gentleman, totter¬ 
ing backward as if he were about to fall. 

A moment later the bewildered guests were startled by 
a low, frightened cry from the farther end of the table, 
and, turning, they saw the Veiled Aeronaut sink back in 
her chair. 

“Water—water—let’s have some water here!” com¬ 
manded the Duckhunter, as, bending over the inert figure 
of the young woman, he roughly raised her veil. “Come, 
be quick—one of you! The lady’s fainted!” 

The Fugitive Bridegroom, with a water-carafe in his 
hand, was hurrying toward the end of the table when his 
gaze fell on the features which the act of the Duckhunter 
had exposed to view. 

Halting suddenly, the Fugitive Bridegroom grew pale 
as death, and, as the carafe fell from his hand to the floor, 
an exclamation of amazement escaped his lips. 

“Paula—my wife!” he muttered. 

The effect produced on the newcomer by the sight of 
the young woman’s face was scarcely less extraordinary 
than that produced on the Fugitive Bridegroom. 

“Pauline!” he gasped. “At last-” 

He was starting forward impulsively, when one of 
Westfall’s hands fell on his shoulder. 




THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 111 


“Stop!” the millionaire said sharply. “You forget that 
you promised me that you would not speak to her until I 
bade you do so.” 

“True, true,” Ferguson replied, sullenly. “But when I 
promised, I did not believe that you could make good 
your word. I thank you, sir, and—and, my promise will 
be kept.” 

Harvette, the Frenchwoman, was quickly summoned, 
but by the time she arrived the young woman had re¬ 
covered and again lowered her veil. Westfall hastened 
to her side and suggested that she go to her room. The 
Veiled Aeronaut shook her head, however. 

“I will remain,” she said, determinedly. “It is better 
that I should know all now.” 

Harvette retired, and the guests resumed their places 
at the table. Then once more Westfall addressed them. 

“We will now hear the story of the Decapitated Man,” 
he said. 

The ninth guest, resolutely turning his eyes from the 
Veiled Aeronaut, then began an account of his adventures. 


CHAPTER V 


THE EYES OF RAJIID 

Though, for reasons which you will soon understand, 
I have been known recently by the name of Alfred Fer¬ 
guson, I am no other than Cecil, Lord Galonfield, and am 
the possessor of one of the most venerable titles and one 
of the most debt-encumbered estates in the United 
Kingdom. 

I am now thirty years of age. Of the incidents of my 
early life there were few that bore any relation to the 
adventures which have befallen me in the last two years. 
I went through Harrow, and from thence to Cambridge, 
where I took my degree when I was twenty-two. Until 
this time I believed myself to be heir to a valuable and 
well-ordered estate. I was soon undeceived, for only a 
few days after I bade farewell to my student life, I was 
summoned to the presence of my father, who informed 
me that, owing to the reckless expenditure made by the 
last two holders of the title, a period of strict retrench¬ 
ment was necessary, and that for ten years, at least, it 
would be necessary to rent our family seat in Yorkshire 
and our house in London. 

My father, who never had made a secret of his desire 
to have me prepare for a political career, was especially 
outspoken now on this subject. 

“Young as you are, this period of retirement from the 
fashionable world may be employed to much advantage,” 

he said. “If you will go to Paris or Berlin, where you 

112 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 113 


are unknown, you will be spared the humiliation of being 
compelled to expose your poverty. There you can address 
yourself to the study of political affairs, and thus acquire 
a fund of knowledge which will be invaluable to you when 
the time comes for you to enter into your own.” 

Believing myself to be ill-fitted temperamentally for 
such a career, I had little liking for the prospect which 
my father, formerly so indulgent, thus pointed out to me. 
In his younger days he had served in the army, eventually 
rising to a colonelcy, and I long had cherished the hope 
that I might do likewise. 

“There is no chance for me in the army, then?” I asked 
sullenly. 

“No,” he answered promptly. “Your income, which, 
for some time, will be limited to three hundred a year, 
would prove insufficient to support a commission. Besides, 
as an officer, you might be ordered to India.” 

There was something in his tone that caused me to look 
at him with surprise. 

“Why should that possibility be regarded as an objec¬ 
tion?” I asked, wonderingly. 

Removing the eye-glasses he was wearing at the time, 
he turned to me gravely, and, for several moments, he 
gazed at me thoughtfully. 

“My son,” he said, at length, “I was well advanced in 
the period of middle age when you were born, and, 
inasmuch as more than fourscore years are behind me, 1 
have not much longer to live. If you go to the Continent, 
as I have suggested, I may not see you for several months, 
and in that time much may happen. It is best, therefore, 
that I should speak with you on a certain serious matter 
before you go.” 

As, leaning forward, I watched him earnestly, I saw a 
strange, far-away expression come into his eyes, and the 


114 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


hand that was toying with his watch-charm began to 
tremble. After pausing for several moments, he went on : 

“In my breast there is a secret which I had hoped to be 
able to take with me to the grave. But I shall not succeed 
in doing this, for during the last ten years I have been 
aware of the fact that strange influences are at work 
around me. It is a secret that has to do with India, and 
which has caused me to view with suspicion every man 
who has come to me from that awful country.” 

Pausing again, he looked abstractedly at the wall; then, 
rousing himself suddenly, he continued: 

“Were I to go into all details, the story would be a long 
one, but I will tell it as briefly as I may. 

“As you know, my father had two sons, and of these I 
was the younger. My brother, Robert—who, by the way, 
you resemble greatly in more ways than one—entered the 
army shortly after he obtained his degree. He soon be¬ 
came popular with his brother officers, and, as he displayed 
considerable military ability, his advancement, due partly 
to his father’s influence, was singularly rapid. At the 
age of thirty he held a major’s commission. 

“It was about this time that the Indian Mutiny began, 
and Robert’s regiment was ordered to India, whither I— 
a twenty-two-year-old lieutenant—already had gone with 
another regiment. Despite the fact that on several 
occasions our respective regiments were only a few miles 
apart, Robert and I did not meet. 

“Having received, at the battle of Mungulwar, a wound 
that incapacitated me for further service, I returned 
home. Six months later Robert caused to be sent to 
this country the body of Lieutenant Wortley, who had 
only a small income, and was almost friendless in Eng¬ 
land. At Robert’s request, my father made arrangements 
for the unfortunate young man’s burial in the parish 



THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 115 


church at Hetley, in Northumberland, where his parents 
and sister were entombed. 

“I had been in England only nine months when, upon 
entering my father’s study one morning, I found him 
stretched lifeless on the floor. He had lived an unbridled 
sort of life, and for several years he had suffered greatly 
with the gout. His heart had been weak, and as, spell¬ 
bound with horror, I bent over his body, I doubted not 
that heart disease was responsible for his sudden death. 

“Quickly recovering my presence of mind, I summoned 
the servants and directed one to go for a village doctor. 
As I became more calm, I picked up from the floor two 
sheets of paper which appeared to have been dropped by 
my father as he fell. One of these sheets contained two 
verses of doggerel, in the handwriting of my brother, 
Robert. Without reading the verses, I glanced at the 
second sheet. This I found to be a letter addressed by 
Robert to our father. It was as follows: 

My Dear Father: Within an hour after this is despatched to 
you, a ball from my own pistol will have ended my life. Two days 
ago I fell into the hands of a band of native fanatics, who, subjecting 
me to a series of the most terrible tortures, mutilated me in such a 
manner that I have resolved never to permit myself to be seen by 
those who knew me before. 

And so, farewell—to you, to my brother, to dear old England and 
all I have loved. Distant as you are from where I will die to-day, 
you will be the first to know that your oldest son is dead. 

I enclose herewith some verses entitled “Stars of Destiny.” As 
they represent the only literary effort I have ever made, it is my 
wish that they be pasted on the back of the frame that holds our 
genealogical chart. It is an absurd request, perhaps, but it is the last 
that you may have from 

Your unfortunate son, 

(signed) Robert. 

Tears filled my father’s eyes as, in a broken voice, he 
added: 


116 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


“And thus did I become the twentieth Earl of 
Galonfield.” 

“My Uncle Robert’s body was never identified?” I 
asked. 

“No,” my father said. “His colonel reported him 
missing. I never heard of him again. The verses were 
only doggerel, written, I suppose, after the poor fellow’s 
mind had been weakened by the tortures to which he was 
subjected, but, with reverent hands, I pasted them on the 
back of the frame, as he requested, and only once since 
then have I seen them. This was on the day when, imbued 
with a spirit of heartfelt thankfulness, I took down the 
chart to inscribe upon it the name of him who was 
destined to be my only son. 

“My father had died in 1859, and having inherited the 
Galonfield title and estates, I found the latter heavily en¬ 
cumbered by debts contracted by my father and grand¬ 
father. Your mother, however, brought me a large 
fortune, and I was in a fair way to establish my affairs on 
a financial basis when a series of strange adventures began 
to befall me. Since then I have lived the life of a haunted 
man. 

“The first of these incidents was my receipt of a letter 
from the London branch of the Calcutta banking firm of 
Golphin & Faley. This letter informed me that the firm 
had been authorized by the Rajah of Nauwar to receive 
from me two diamonds that had been entrusted to the 
keeping of my brother Robert during the Indian Mutiny, 
and which, the bankers said, were then known to be in my 
possession. Naturally, and truthfully, I asserted that I 
never had seen or heard of them. 

“The bankers were insistent, and, finally, the Rajah 
brought suit against me for the restitution of the dia¬ 
monds. He attempted to prove the delivery of the stones 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 117 


to my brother, but my attorneys soon showed that his 
witnesses were perjuring themselves. Shortly after this 
the Rajah died, and for several months I heard no more 
of the matter. 

“At length, however, the affair assumed a far more 
extraordinary phase, and you may easily imagine my 
astonishment when I began to receive from India letters 
written, as were the addresses on the envelopes that 
enclosed them, in the handwriting of—my brother! 

“In each case the fluid used was India ink, and each 
letter consisted of only a few lines—begging me—com¬ 
manding me—to deliver the two diamonds to Golphin & 
Faley without delay. 

“In all, I have received no less than thirty of these 
letters during a period that has extended over thirty years. 
The last came to my hands three weeks ago. 

“As I have said, your mother brought to me a large 
fortune. When she died, four years after your birth, this 
was left to me unconditionally, and most of it has been 
used in attempts to find my brother. 

“The letters bearing Robert’s signatures were dated in 
various towns in India—Calcutta, Oodeypoor, Allan- 
habad, Saugor, and Madras, and the postmarks indicated 
that they were, in fact, sent from those places. Some of 
these cities were so distant from one another, however, 
that the territory which my agents found it necessary to 
search comprised more than half of the Indian Empire. 
It is not surprising, therefore, that the search was vain. 

“That many persons, other than residents of India, be¬ 
lieve that I have these mysterious stones in my possession, 
is indicated by the fact that, from time to time, dealers in 
precious stones have visited me and have offered to 
purchase them at enormous sums. Scarcely a month has 
gone by that has not found on my desk some letter 


118 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


threatening me with death or financial ruin if I do not 
relinquish the gems. 

“No house in England has been so frequently entered 
by burglars as has mine, and I have been obliged to dis¬ 
charge scores of servants whom I have found to be guilty 
of tampering with my private letter boxes.” 

“Do you believe my Uncle Robert is still alive?” I 
asked. 

“No,” replied my father with decision. “I do not 
doubt, for a moment, that he died in the course of the few 
days following the despatch of that last letter to my 
father. The letters I have been receiving, and which pur¬ 
port to be from him, either are exceedingly clever forger¬ 
ies, or were written by him, while under duress, after 
writing to my father.” 

“Well, it is plain that the Rajah and the others would 
not have made such determined and costly efforts to get 
the stones from you had they not an excellent reason for 
believing that, having come into the possession of my 
Uncle Robert, they had been forwarded by him to you,” 
I said thoughtfully. 

My father nodded. 

“That is unquestionably true,” he said. “But, despite 
all the inquiries I have made, I have failed to discover 
why the stones were given to my brother, or the identity 
of the person from whose hands he received them. The 
Rajah asserted that the stones had been stolen from him, 
and that the thief—a native—entrusted to my brother a 
commission to take them to England, where they were to 
be offered for sale. The native is dead, and, while the 
Rajah pretended to have documentary evidence of the 
understanding which existed between my brother and the 
thief, he failed to produce it.” 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 119 


For several minutes we sat in silence; then, rising, my 
father laid a hand on my shoulder. 

“This, my son, is the secret that I have never, until 
now, asked you to share. I hope and pray that the perse¬ 
cutions to which I have been subjected may not pass to 
you with the title which you will inherit on my death. If 
Robert still lives, I hope that he and I may meet again. If 
he is dead, may his poor spirit rest in Heaven.” 

The following week I bade farewell to my father, and 
set off for Paris. I remained in the French capital for 
four years, and during that time I succeeded in supple¬ 
menting the three hundred pounds which I had received 
annually from my father with a couple of hundred pounds 
for services as Paris correspondent for a London weekly 
newspaper. 

I regret to say, however, that, despite my profound 
regard for my father, I devoted comparatively little time 
to the course of study which he had suggested. Living 
in modest quarters, I found my income sufficient to enable 
me to mingle with the laughter-loving denizens of the 
Latin Quarter, and, devoid of all serious ambition, I was 
well content. 

But this irresponsible mode of life was brought to a 
sudden close when I received from my father the follow¬ 
ing telegram: 

In Heaven’s name come to me at once at Wercliffe. My life is no 
longer my own. Insist on seeing me. Take no refusal. 

(signed) Galonfield. 

An hour later I was on my way to England. Arriving 
there, I hastened to Wercliffe Hall, our country seat, 
where I was greeted by strange servants. This fact caused 
me little surprise, for the Hall had been rented to an 


120 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


American for a couple of years, and, naturally, our old 
servants had dispersed. 

When, however, a stranger, introducing himself as Dr. 
Tully, told me that, as my father’s physician, he was com¬ 
pelled to ask me to delay my visit to his bedside, my spirit 
was roused. 

‘T will go to him at once, even if it is necessary for me 
to knock down a dozen men who bar my way,” I retorted, 
angrily. 

His face grew livid, but whether this was the result of 
fear or anger I could not tell. He stepped back, however, 
and, as I passed on, I heard him mutter, sullenly: 

“Well, the devil take you, then. I’ll not be responsible 
for the consequences.” 

Turning quickly, I addressed him again : 

“What is the matter with my father?” 

“He was stricken with heart trouble, ten days ago,” the 
man replied. “Any excitement, however slight, is likely 
to prove fatal to him now.” 

I hesitated, but it was only for a moment. The words 
of the message flashed into my mind, and I knew that, in 
the circumstances, it was more probable that my father 
would be more excited by my tardiness than by my ap¬ 
pearance. Accordingly, passing on, with Dr. Tully close 
at my heels, I came at last to my father's bedchamber. 

As I opened the door quietly, I saw my father, wrapped 
in a dressing-gown, seated in a chair near one of the 
windows. His face was like a death-mask, and I shrank 
in horror from the change that had been wrought in his 
appearance since I had seen him last, six months before. 

But for only a moment did my gaze rest on the face 
and figure of the invalid. Standing beside him, and bend¬ 
ing over his chair, was a tall, lanky, clean-shaven man 
whose features, it seemed to me, I had seen somewhere 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 121 


before. This man was speaking, in a calm, low voice, but 
I heard his words distinctly. 

“So—so!” he was saying, musingly. “He was prepar¬ 
ing to die. And his last request had to do with some 
verses he had written. You read these verses? Yes—ah, 
yes—they were sad things—about two stars—two stars of 
destiny, and you pasted them on the back of a frame that 
held-” 

A low cough behind me caused me to turn sharply. The 
sound had been made by Dr. Tully. 

But the cough had been heard by other ears than mine. 
The tall man beside my father turned abruptly, and as, 
with kindling eyes and rising color, he confronted me, I 
knew him in a moment. 

It was Simon Glyncamp, an American, who, two years 
before, had created a sort of furor in Paris by his mind¬ 
reading exhibitions. 

“Why are you here?” I demanded—half in anger— 
half in wonder. 

“As an assistant of Dr. Tully’s, I might, with more 
propriety, ask that question of you,” he said, and he 
flashed an ugly look towards the physician. 

I was about to speak when a low, shrill cry interrupted 
me, and, with outstretched arms, my father, trembling 
violently, rose from his chair. 

“Cecil—Cecil, my son!” he cried in accents so pitifully 
weak that they smote my heart. “Cecil, they are killing 
me —they have me in their power. I am dying, and this 
man is robbing me of my soul. Fear him—fear him— 
Cecil—I-” 

He tottered toward me, then, as he fell in my arms, his 
figure became inert. I bore him to a chair, and, as I laid 
him down, I looked into his eyes. The lids were raised, 
but I knew that he never would see me more. 




122 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


Maddened by rage and horror, I seized Glyncamp by 
the throat and hurled him toward the door. His head 
struck the wall and he fell like a bent poker to the floor. 
I rang for a servant, and when the man appeared, I bade 
him bring the old village doctor. 

An hour later I had driven from the house Glyncamp, 
Tully, and every servant who had been employed about 
the place. Among them there was not one who did not 
know that I had murder in my heart. They went quickly. 

The places of the servants were taken temporarily by 
some of the villagers. That night two strangers, who 
were found loitering in the park, were stoned from the 
grounds. 

When I became more calm, I secured the services of 
two detectives, who I directed to obtain evidence showing 
that Glyncamp and Tully were responsible for my father’s 
death. A few hours later I learned that the villains had 
crossed the channel. 

For the two weeks following the funeral of my father, 
my attention was absorbed by matters relative to the 
estate. These I found to be far less serious than I had 
expected. The frugality of my father and the excellence 
of his judgment were not without effect. Some debts 
were still unpaid and there were several mortgages to be 
lifted, but it was apparent that the financial crisis of the 
Galonfield affairs had been passed successfully. I did not 
doubt that two more years would find the estate, not only 
free from debt, but in such shape as to yield an income of 
twenty thousand pounds a year. Having reached this 
gratifying conclusion, I next addressed myself to a solu¬ 
tion of the mystery which enveloped the closing days of 
my poor father. 

That a desperate attempt had been made to wring from 
my father some sort of secret which his tormentors had 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 123 


believed him to possess was, of course, perfectly apparent. 
What was it that this American mind-reader had been 
trying to learn at the moment that my appearance had 
interrupted his efforts? 

I distinctly remembered the words I had heard on that 
occasion, and I tried to understand their significance. It 
was plain that the American was leading my father’s mind 
back to the time when he had read the papers that had 
fallen from my dying grandfather’s hand. Why did 
Glyncamp desire to know what disposition he had made 
of the verses he found? 

Then I suddenly remembered that, despite the fact that 
my father had told me what he had done with these verses, 
I had not had sufficient curiosity to look at them. Rising 
now, I left the study, in which I had been seated, and, 
entering the library, I took down from the wall the framed 
genealogical chart of the Galonfield family. Returning 
with this to the study, I laid it on the desk. 

The sheet containing the verses met my glance at once. 
It was yellow, and covered with dust, but the India ink 
with which the lines had been written had lost none of its 
blackness. The paste had dried, however, and, as I 
touched the paper, it came off the wood to which it was 
attached. The handwriting was small and almost fem¬ 
ininely dainty, and I read: 

STARS OF DESTINY. 

Rare as two angel-tears congealed 
Are those that flashed their light 

Just as great Buddha’s gaze revealed 
Its splendors to men’s sight. 

Immured within a human breast, 

Down Tyneside one shall go. 

’Tis only when the truth is guessed 
Shall men behold its glow. 


124 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


Let him who hath less haste than I, 

Or deems himself less rich, 

Seek that from which in fear I fly— 

The treasure in the niche. 

Encompassed by the very walls 
Your temple-builders made, 

Ere death unto the finder calls, 

Seize fast the long-tongued jade. 

I always have been a lover of poetry, but in this I found 
nothing that appealed to me. The verses left the writer’s 
meaning so obscure that, believing, as my father had done, 
they amounted to no more than mere doggerel, I dropped 
them into one of the drawers of my desk. A few moments 
later my solicitor entered the room to discuss with me 
some matters that had to do with the settlement of the 
estate, and the verses ceased to have a place in my 
thoughts. The chart was returned to its place on the 
wall without the verses which, in accordance with the 
writer’s wish, had been pasted on the back of the frame 
before my birth. 

Five weeks after my father’s death, I received from 
another American an offer for a lease on Wercliffe Hall, 
and, having decided to continue, for two or three years 
at least, my father’s policy of retrenchment, I promptly 
accepted it. A month later I established myself in an 
apartment in London. 

While arranging my papers in the desk in my new 
quarters, I found that among them were the verses from 
the chart. 

Despite my resolution to curtail my expenses as much 
as possible, I yielded to the solicitation of an old family 
friend and joined a couple of clubs which had had the 
names of Earls of Galonfield on their rolls from the time 
of their foundation. It was at one of these clubs that I 
first met Meschid Pasha who, little as I suspected it at 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 125 


the time, was destined to play an important part in the 
history of my life. 

Meschid Pasha, who had attained considerable promi¬ 
nence as an officer in the Turkish army, was a man about 
fifty-five years of age, with a pleasing address, thoughtful 
face and the physique of a man of thirty. I was intro¬ 
duced to him by an old friend of my father’s, with whom, 
however, I had only a slight acquaintance. 

The Pasha explained that he had been in London only 
a few days, and that twenty years had passed since his 
last visit. Courteously he asked me for certain informa¬ 
tion concerning the town, and, as I was able to give him 
this, we soon found ourselves conversing together in terms 
of easy familiarity. There was something in the man 
that interested me, and when he invited me to take dinner 
with him on the following evening, I promised to do so. 

He had told me that, designing to spend several months 
in London, he had rented a furnished house in the West 
End. Thither I went, at the time appointed, expecting to 
find a modest town house fitted up in conventional British 
style. The house itself was modest enough, being in the 
middle of a dingy brick block, but scarcely had I been 
admitted to the hall when I became aware of the fact that 
the fastidious Pasha had established in the heart of Lon¬ 
don a residence which, by reason of its interior appoint¬ 
ments, might have been transported from Constantinople 
or Damascus. 

In the dimly lighted hall I saw a Nubian, clad in 
Oriental costume, steal like a shadow from a deep niche 
and noiselessly ascend the stairs. The room to which I 
was conducted had the aspect of the corner of a Turkish 
bazaar. The walls were hung with rich Oriental draperies, 
and were further decorated with shields, simitars, 
yataghans and spears. 


126 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


Meschid received me with marked cordiality, and, after 
a short conversation, led me to an adjoining room where 
dinner was served. Everything was cooked and served in 
Oriental fashion. 

When dinner was finished we smoked, and, as we 
smoked, our talk was of the collapse of Russia, the 
wrangles among Christian sects in Jerusalem, the influ¬ 
ence of sea power on history, and Parisian opera. This 
brought us to a discussion of the relative merits of 
French, German, Italian, and American singers, and so 
we talked of women. Then, half-absently, Meschid said: 

“My wife was an Englishwoman.” 

I started, for I knew that among Mohammedans it is 
regarded as an almost unpardonable breach of etiquette 
for men to speak of the female members of their families. 

“Indeed!” I murmured, faintly. 

“My daughter, whose education was entrusted to an 
English governess, has so long felt a desire to see her 
mother’s native country, that, yielding to her wish, I 
brought her with me,” the Pasha went on gravely. “I 
regret having done so, however, for her incessant ques¬ 
tioning almost drives me mad. I shall try to have her 
visited each day by some discreet London woman, but 
your ladies’ ideas of a woman’s life are so vastly different 
from ours that I am inclined to fear the result.” 

“Is your daughter’s English governess not with her?” 
I asked. 

“No, my friend, her governess died last year.” 

“Well, surely, among the wives of your English 
friends-” 

“I have no English friends,” he interrupted. “To be 
perfectly frank with you, I will confess that among my 
English acquaintances there is none who is so well quali¬ 
fied to win my friendship as is the Earl of Galonfield.” 



THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 127 


“In view of what you have said concerning your 
daughter, that is most unfortunate,” I said, laughingly. 
“The Earl of Galonfield has no wife, mother, or sister.” 

Smiling thoughtfully, Meschid nodded. 

“It is most unfortunate,” he replied with a sigh. “But 
what would you advise me to do? Is there any cultured 
and thoroughly responsible woman you would recommend 
who-” 

He stopped suddenly, and, glancing at me sharply, he 
slowly twisted one of the ends of his black mustache. For 
the first time since I had met him I was conscious now of 
a sense of embarrassment. 

“Stop!” he exclaimed, as he saw that I was about to 
speak. “There is an old adage that directs those who are 
in Rome to do as the Romans do. We are in England, 
and, relying on your discretion, I will do as the English 
do. My daughter shall be present at our council.” 

He smote his sinewy hands together with a force that 
startled me, and, responding to this sound, a corpulent 
negro, wearing a red fez and a long black coat, entered 
the apartment. To this man Meschid addressed several 
quickly spoken sentences in a language that I did not 
understand. The negro bowed profoundly and left the 
room. 

Meschid and I smoked in silence. 

Strange as it may seem, I was not agreeably impressed 
by these manifestations of extraordinary friendliness, and 
from the moment that my host had first spoken of his 
daughter, I was conscious of a rapidly increasing feeling 
of distrust. I was never known as a “woman’s man,” 
and all my life I have been peculiarly insensible to flattery. 
Why had this distinguished foreigner sought my ac¬ 
quaintance? Why was he now manifesting toward me 
such startling evidence of his confidence? 



128 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


My discomfiting reflections were dissipated, however, 
by the parting of the curtains at the door, and the appear¬ 
ance of one of the most remarkable figures on which I 
ever had gazed. 

Clad in a long-sleeved, silken caftan of purple silk, the 
open folds of which revealed a low, white, gold-embroid¬ 
ered vest, an orange-colored sash and pale-green trousers, 
it was the figure of a woman. Her head, however, was 
enveloped in a snowy yashmak, and through the slit of 
this I saw a pair of dark eyes lighted with what appeared 
to be curiosity and amusement. Her bare feet were thrust 
into dainty, jeweled slippers of crimson leather, and the 
light from the diamonds set in her rings and bracelets 
almost dazzled me. 

Utterly bewildered by the suddenness with which I had 
been confronted with this pearl of an Oriental harem, as 
well as by my ignorance of the conventionalities which 
should be observed on such occasions, I started to rise. A 
moment later, with a fluttering heart and trembling limbs, 
I sank helplessly back on the ottoman on which I had been 
seated. 

At a word from the Pasha, the young woman had 
raised her jeweled hands, and, by two or three deft move¬ 
ments, freed her head from the veil. 

I was face to face with a beautiful creature that might 
have been one of those houris who, according to the 
promise made by Mohammed, await the faithful within 
the gates of Paradise! 

I am not a poet, so I will not attempt to describe the 
face I saw. It was unnaturally beautiful. Nature had 
been lavish in her gifts, but these were so supplemented by 
the work of human hands that the general effect bewil¬ 
dered me. It was plain that nature had not given to this 
fair woman’s lips all their redness, nor had it invested her 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 129 


lashes and eyebrows with such blackness. Diamonds 
were shimmering in her hair, many of the stones being so 
concealed by the dark tresses that I could see only their 
light. 

Without rising, Meschid said quietly: 

“This is my daughter, and, with the exception of the 
members of my family, your lordship is the first man 
before whom she has unveiled her face.” 

Rising clumsily, I took in mine the dainty, gem-covered 
hand the young woman held out to me. 

“I am glad that one of my mother’s countrymen is the 
first of your sex that I am permitted to meet,” the young 
woman said, smiling graciously and speaking in faultless 
English. 

She glanced half-timorously toward the Pasha, as if to 
assure herself that her words had met with his approval. 

Meschid smiled grimly, but said nothing. 

I stammered a few conventional sentences, then we sat 
down. As I did so, I observed that a second person had 
entered the room. This was a tall woman clad in a black 
gown and a yashmak of the same color. She seated herself 
in one of the corners of the room, and, with her head 
slightly bowed, remained motionless for the rest of the 
evening. This, I doubted not, was some withered Turkish 
duenna to whose care the young woman had been 
consigned. 

In a surprisingly short time I was again at ease. Had 
it not been for her Oriental costume and cosmetics, this 
fair stranger easily might have passed for a charming, 
vivacious young Englishwoman. As it was, there were 
moments when I felt as if, as a guest at a fancy-dress 
ball, I was sitting in a corner of an Englishman’s home, 
talking with a couple of English friends. 

In the course of the two hours that followed my in- 


130 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


troduction to this beautiful young woman, we conversed 
on many subjects, and, incidentally, I learned that her 
name was Pauline. 

“It is not a Turkish name, you know,” she explained 
laughingly. “I was named after a relative of my 
mother’s.” 

It was ten o’clock when I took leave of my host and his 
charming daughter. They invited me to visit them again 
on the second evening following, and at the appointed time 
I was there. 

For more than a month I made a practice of visiting 
Meschid’s house twice each week, and on most of these 
occasions I was afforded an opportunity to pass an hour 
in the company of Pauline and the sombre, featureless 
duenna, who followed her like a shadow, but whose voice 
I never had heard. And there were times when, as the 
duenna appeared to be absorbed in memories of distant 
lands and days, Pauline and I drew so near together on 
one of the large ottomans that our hands were wont to 
meet, and I saw in her eyes those wondrous lights that the 
old Persian poets, looking into others, had seen and sung 
about. 

How much of this the old duenna saw, we never knew. 

At length, however, there came a sudden awakening, 
and I visited Meschid’s house no more. 

Pauline and I were sitting on the ottoman together, 
about nine o’clock one night, and talking in whispers that 
could not have reached the duenna’s ears, when I, raising 
my eyes, saw Meschid, who was scowling darkly, stand¬ 
ing in the doorway. Pauline, following the direction of 
my glance, saw him, too, and, with a little cry, raised her 
head from my shoulder, on which it had been lying. 

For several moments the silence that followed the 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 131 


discovery of Meschid’s presence was unbroken. The 
Pasha was the first to speak. 

“Well, your lordship, you see I trusted you,” he said 
bitterly. 

“Nor have I betrayed your confidence,” I said calmly, 
as I rose. “Before introducing me to your daughter, you 
told me that, being in England, you were prepared to do 
as the English do. I have taken you at your word, and, 
having obtained your permission to visit your daughter, 
I have acted as almost any Englishman who loves a 
woman would act in similar circumstances. In the Eng¬ 
lish manner I have wooed her, and, as an Englishman 
who is able to offer her both social position and fortune, 
I now ask your permission to make her my wife.” 

Meschid’s face was less clouded now. His gaze 
wandered from me to the duenna at the farther end of 
the room, and then I saw that the somber figure had risen 
as if prepared to receive the expected rebuke. This was 
not forthcoming, however. Walking deliberately toward 
the center of the room, Meschid addressed his daughter, 
whose colorless face and frightened eyes were turned 
toward him. 

“Leave us,” Meschid said with an imperious wave of 
the arm. 

Pauline, hesitating, turned to me. Taking her hands 
I pressed them to my lips. 

“Whatever happens now, we shall meet again,” I mur¬ 
mured. “No earthly power except your own can prevent 
me from making you my wife.” 

With a little sigh, she turned to the door. Then, 
followed closely by the duenna, she left the room. 

“Let us smoke,” the Pasha said, and, taking a cigar- 
case from his pocket, he opened it and held it toward me. 


132 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


I took one of the cigars and we sat down together on 
one of the ottomans. 

“And so you want to marry her,” Meschid said, 
gravely. 

“Yes,” I answered. 

“You are asking me to yield to you the most beautiful 
woman in the world,” he went on, thoughtfully. 

“I am well aware of that,” I said. 

“And you know that every pearl has its price,” he 
added. 

A sudden chillness crept over me, and my heart sank. 
For the first time in my life I knew the sensation of 
fear. I realized, too, that I was dealing now with a 
true son of the Orient—a part of the world-where women 
are bought and sold for harems. 

“Well, what is the price of this?” I asked him, sullenly. 

“The most valuable pair of diamonds known to man,” 
replied the Pasha gravely. 

I started, and looked at him sharply.. 

All was clear to me now. This man had come all 
the way to London to tempt me. So far as Pauline and 
I were concerned, he had left nothing to chance. This 
house, with its Oriental furnishings, had been fitted up 
for no purpose other than that to which I had seen it 
applied. It was a trap set for me alone, and baited with 
—Pauline! 

Almost unconscious of the Pasha’s presence, I rose and 
began to pace the floor. In my brain was raging a fire 
that seemed to be consuming all the respect for man and 
love for woman that I ever had felt. Was it possible 
that this splendid woman—the fairest I ever had seen— 
had been only playing a part? Was she nothing more 
than a blind, unreasoning puppet that moved in obedience 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 133 


to this jewel-seeker's will? Or, ignorant of her father’s 
base designs, had she really learned to love me? 

While I still was tortured by these conflicting thoughts, 
it suddenly occurred to me that my position was present¬ 
ing a second, and no less serious, phase. The shadow of 
the curse that had blighted my father’s life now had 
fallen upon me! I was in the presence of one of the 
men who, it was apparent, thoroughly believed that the 
mysterious diamonds were in the possession of my 
family. How did he come by this belief? 

Glancing toward Meschid, I saw he was watching me 
stolidly. 

“The most valuable pair of diamonds known to man 
might not be too precious to offer in exchange for such 
a gift,” I said. “But where am I to get them?” 

The Pasha shrugged his shoulders. 

“Your lordship must find the way,” he answered, 
shortly. 

“Do you believe they are already in my possession?” 
I asked. 

“No,” Meschid replied. “But I have reason to believe 
your father knew where they might be found. I doubt 
not that he communicated the secret to you.” 

“Have you reason to believe that they are in England?” 

“No,” said the Pasha, smiling slightly. “If I knew 
the secret of the hiding place, it is probable that I would 
not find it necessary to come to you.” 

“How were you led to suspect that the secret was in 
the possession of my family?” I asked. 

“That is my affair,” he retorted. 

For several moments both of us were silent. Then, 
having thought calmly on the matter, I addressed him. 

“For many years men have suspected that two valuable 
diamonds either were in my father’s possession or that 


134 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


he had the secret of their hiding place,” I said. “Why 
they should think this always constituted a mystery that 
he never was able to fathom. Independent of my in¬ 
terest in your daughter, it is desirable that I find the 
gems. If they come into my possession I gladly will 
relinquish them to you in exchange for the gift that it 
is in your power to bestow on me. I would require as a 
further condition, however, that publicity be given to the 
fact that you have become the owner of the stones.” 

“That responsibility I would assume most cheerfully,” 
Meschid replied with a smile. 

“I am perfectly willing,” I said, “to undertake the quest, 
provided it is possible for me to find the clue which, 
though unknown to me, appears to be identified with the 
property that I have inherited. If you have any sugges¬ 
tion to offer that is likely to put me on the right track, 
I beg of you to let me have it.” 

Meschid shrugged his shoulders. 

“I can give you no advice,” he said, half contemptu¬ 
ously. “I have told you on what terms I will grant you 
my consent to marry my daughter. The rest is your 
affair.” 

“How much time may I have in which to attain my 
object?” I asked. 

Again the Pasha shrugged his shoulders. 

“My daughter is twenty now, and a woman’s beauty 
does not last forever,” he answered, sharply. “If, within 
two years from to-day you deliver these stones to me, 
Pauline shall be your wife. If you fail to do this within 
the period I have named—why, then she will become the 
bride of a more determined suitor.” 

“What is the history of these stones?” I asked him 
desperately. “Who was supposed to have had them be¬ 
fore they were delivered to my uncle ? All large diamonds 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 135 


have distinctive names. By what names are these known ? 
How am I to learn who had them last, and how they may 
be identified?” 

The Pasha shook his head. 

“I have no information concerning these details,” he 
said. “As I have said, it is your affair.” 

Meschid moved toward the door suggestively as he 
spoke, but I, standing in the middle of the room, still 
hesitated. 

“Will I not be permitted to see your daughter again 
before she leaves London?” I asked. 

“No,” he answered with decision. “I will start for 
Constantinople to-morrow, and she will go with me.” 

I bowed and left the room. Meschid, contrary to my 
expectation, did not accompany me. As I passed through 
the dimly lighted hall, however, a strange thing happened. 
A shapeless figure suddenly appeared, then flitted to a 
doorway. On the wall opposite this doorway was an 
oval mirror in a massive gold frame, and as I passed 
it, something in the glass attracted, then riveted, my atten¬ 
tion. 

It was a human face from which had fallen the folds 
of the yashmak that had concealed from my view the 
features of the duenna, and, as I looked, I recognized 
the long, angular face of Glyncamp, the American mind- 
reader ! 

Involuntarily I stopped. For several moments the mir¬ 
rored eyes gazed steadily into mine, then the face disap¬ 
peared, and I passed on. 

A black-garmented negro, gliding from a niche, met me 
as, decending the stairs, I made my way to the lower hall. 
He opened the street door for me, and, stepping out, I 
found that the city was enveloped in a fog as thick, 
murky and gloomy as my thoughts. 


136 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


On the following day I learned that Meschid, Glyn- 
camp, and most of the members of the Pasha’s household 
had left London for Dover. The servants who remained 
behind were engaged in the task of packing furniture. 

The next week I gave much time to the examination 
of my father’s correspondence, hoping to find therein a 
clue to the identity and whereabouts of some person who 
might know something more of the mysterious gems than 
I had been able to learn. My search was vain, however, 
and, brooding over my failure, late one night, my thoughts 
were diverted by the entrance of a servant who gave to 
me the card of a visitor. 

As I glanced at the card, an exclamation of pleased 
surprise came to my lips. I pushed back my chair and 
hurried to the hall to welcome the one man in all the 
world for whom, since my father’s death, I had enter¬ 
tained feelings of real affection—Frank Blakeslee, an old 
classmate, who, having obtained a commission in the 
army, had been serving in India, Africa and Malta, and 
whom I had not seen for more than four years. 

I am not an emotional man, but now my heart seemed 
to rise to my throat. Since Blakeslee and I had parted 
last, I had seemed to be living a life of isolation, and 
during this period there was none I regarded as a confi¬ 
dant. Now, when I saw the smiling bronzed face of my 
old friend in the hallway, I gave no heed to the hand 
that he held out to me, but, grasping him by the shoulders, 
I shook him violently—insanely, like a very fool. My 
words of welcome fell incoherently from trembling lips, 
but he read their meaning in my eyes. 

Startled by the strangeness of my greeting, my friend 
looked a little alarmed at first, then, smiling, he said, in 
his brusque, English way : 

“Well, Cecil, how are things with you? I was sorry 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 137 


to hear of your governor’s death. I knew it must have 
cut you up a bit.” 

We talked for a while on various subjects of interest 
to us both. Then, coming back to my affairs, I told him 
all that had befallen me since my father had revealed to 
me the strange secret of his life. 

Blakeslee watched me intently as I proceeded with my 
narrative, and, from time to time, the shrewd questions 
he put to me showed that the last few years had not 
clouded the keen perceptions that had inspired me with 
admiration in our college days. I brought the narrative 
down to the very moment that the servant had placed my 
friend’s card in my hands. 

When I finished, Blakeslee slowly settled back in his 
chair and puffed vigorously at his pipe. I watched him 
curiously, anxious to learn what effect my recital had 
upon his mind. At length he spoke. 

“How’s Cummings?” he asked, absently. 

Cummings, an inconsequential fellow, was an old class¬ 
mate of ours, of whom I had lost sight. His life had 
never interested me. 

“I don’t know anything about him,” I replied, shortly, 
and a feeling of resentment sent the blood to my face as 
I realized that my friend’s thoughts already had wandered 
from the subject I had found so vital. 

“A helpless sort of duffer, wasn’t he?” said Blakeslee, 
meditatively. For several moments he smoked silently, 
then he went on : “But, I say, old man, you haven’t showed 
me that doggerel—those verses, you know—that your 
uncle wrote.” 

I hesitated. Blakeslee had disappointed me. As he 
sat now, thumbing tobacco deeper into the bowl of his 
pipe, there seemed to be something impertinent in his 


138 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


complacency. Dominated by a spirit of irritation, I made 
no reply to his suggestion. He flashed toward me a look 
of earnest inquiry. 

“If you happen to have them anywhere about you, Cecil, 
I’d sort of like to have a look at them,” he persisted. 

Half-reluctantly, I opened a drawer of my desk, and, 
after a little fumbling, found the sheet and handed it to 
him. He read the verses deliberately. 

“Humph—not bad!” he muttered, as he finished read¬ 
ing; then, laying the sheet on one of his crossed knees, 
he lighted his pipe. “What have you made of them?” 

“Nothing,” I answered, sullenly. 

“But the possibility that they might afford some sort 
of a clue to the mystery of the diamonds naturally oc¬ 
curred to you,” my friend said thoughtfully, as again 
picking up the sheet he looked at the back of it. 

“The idea did occur to me, but there seemed to be 
nothing in the character of the lines to encourage it. Ac¬ 
cordingly, I dismissed it.” 

“And you didn’t look for an acrostic or cryptogram or 
—or anything of that sort?” he went on musingly, as, 
with his elbows on his knees, he studied more carefully 
the lines on the sheet. 

“No,” I replied. 

For nearly five minutes the silence was unbroken. Puf¬ 
fing deliberately at his pipe, Blakeslee kept his gaze on the 
sheet he was holding before him. 

“Well, Cecil, there’s something here,” he drawled, at 
last. 

I stiffened suddenly. All my resentment left me now. 

“Do you know, Cecil, I always had a fancy for this sort 
of thing,” said Blakeslee, with a chuckle. He paused, 
then added: “He’s talking about gems—two of them— 
that’s plain enough.” 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 139 


“He calls them stars—stars of destiny/’ I protested. 

“Figuratively—figuratively, I suppose they are,”he said, 
abstractedly. “But they are gems, for the writer plainly 
indicates that the objects were capable of being handled— 
and one does not handle stars, you know. Now, let us 
see. Listen to this: ‘Rare as two angel-tears congealed—’ 
There were two of them, you see. ‘Are those that flashed 
their light—’ Diamonds are the only gems that really 
flash. But now let’s see what he means by ‘just as great 
Buddha’s gaze revealed—’ That ‘just’ signifies the time 
the stones were there—that they were—well, some place, 
I suppose. ‘Its splendors to men’s sight.’ Now it’s clear 
that the ‘its’ refers to the gaze and not the flashing of the 
diamonds. In short, then, the diamonds flashed when 
Buddha gazed.” 

I rose irritably. 

“Oh, that’s all nonsense!” I exclaimed. “If you are 
going to undertake the thing at all, you’d better get on 
another track.” 

“Nonsense!” Blakeslee repeated, in an injured tone. 
“There’s nothing nonsensical about it, old top. I’ve been 
in India, and I’ve seen images of Buddha that used to have 
necklaces of precious stones around their necks. Some¬ 
times the images were veiled. The withdrawal of the 
veil would reveal the gems and the face of the image at 
the same time, wouldn’t it?” 

I went back to my chair. There seemed to be some 
method in the madness of my friend, after all. 

“Well,” Blakeslee went on, “let us see how this first 
verse goes when the lines are taken together. 

“ ‘Rare as two angel-tears congealed 
Are those that flashed their light 
Just as great Buddha’s gaze revealed 
Its splendors to men’s sight. 


140 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


Immured within a human breast, 

Down Tyneside one shall go. 

’Tis only when the truth is guessed 
Shall men behold its glow.’ 

That’s clear enough, too—in a way.” 

“Clear enough!” I exclaimed in disgust. “It seems to 
me that it makes everything more obscure than it was 
before.” 

“Not at all,” replied Blakeslee, calmly. “It plainly 
indicates that one of the stones was to be taken from the 
land of Buddha to England. That’s all.” 

“Come, come, Blakeslee, you are letting your imagina¬ 
tion carry you too far from the field,” I said. “The last 
four lines of the stanza, more than all the others, have 
convinced me that my poor uncle really was in a senti¬ 
mental mood when he wrote of the ‘Stars of Destiny.’ 
They refer to the death of a comrade—Lieutenant Wort- 
ley, who, while serving with my uncle in India, was killed 
in a skirmish with natives. Wortley belonged to a com¬ 
paratively humble family in Northumberland. The 
family and its fortune were about extinct at the time of 
his death. My uncle’s affection for the poor devil was so 
strong, however, that he had the body embalmed and 
sent to England, paying all the expenses of the funeral 
himself.” 

“From what part of Northumberland did Wortley 
come?” Blakeslee asked sharply. 

“From a little village named Hetley,” I replied. 

“And he was buried at Hetley?” 

“Yes—in the family vault in Hetley churchyard. The 
town is on the river Tyne, and the lines in the ‘Stars of 
Destiny’ that read ‘Down Tyneside one shall go’ doubtless 
refer to this circumstance.” 

There was a pause, then Blakeslee said musingly: 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 141 


“I have heard of men swallowing diamonds in order to 
hide them—though the act nearly always proved fatal, 
but stars—never, Cecil—never!” 

For several moments I was speechless, and I felt drops 
of perspiration gathering on my forehead. 

“Great Heavens, Blakeslee, you don’t think—” I began. 

“I’m only guessing, Cecil,” he answered gravely. 
“Listen: 


“ ‘Immured within a human breast, 

Down Tyneside one shall go. 

’Tis only when the truth is guessed 
Shall men behold its glow.’ 

I’m only guessing, boy—I’m only guessing.” 

“But—if these diamonds are all that the Pasha be¬ 
lieves them to be, each must be almost as large as the 
Kohinoor. No man would attempt to swallow such a 
stone.” 

“Perhaps he didn’t swallow it,” said Blakeslee. “It may 
be that he died before the idea of ‘immuring’ it occurred 
to your ingenious uncle.” 

With an exclamation of horror and impatience I rose. 

“The very idea is atrocious!” I said. 

“Not at all,” Blakeslee protested, complacently. “If 
men go through life with gold teeth and aluminum jaws 
in their heads, and silver pipes in their chests, what is 
there revolting in the idea of a man going to the grave 
with a diamond in the place formerly occupied by his 
heart ? It was a good thing for the Lieutenant, I should 
say. Had it not been for that diamond his bones would 
now be lying in an Indian trench. As it is, he has found 
burial among his forefathers. There will be no difficulty 
in getting permission to open the tomb, I suppose.” 

“No,” I murmured. “In view of the fact that mem- 


142 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


bers of my family had the body brought from India, I 
dare say the matter readily may be arranged.” 

Blakeslee nodded. 

“Well, there’s one of the gems accounted for,” he said. 
“Now let’s see to the other one.” 

He again picked up the sheet containing the verses, 
and began to study the lines attentively. I gave him little 
attention. Trembling with excitement, 1 paced the floor 
with nervous steps. At length a little chuckle from 
Blakeslee caused me to halt abruptly. 

“As an exponent of practical expression, this old chap 
was a veritable Wordsworth, Alfred Austin, or Walt 
Whitman—too simple to become great,” he said. “We 
don’t require any of the literary acumen of a woman’s 
Browning club to decipher his meaning. Listen to this: 

“ 'Let him who hath less haste than I, 

Or deems himself less rich, 

Seek that from which in fear I fly— 

The treasure in the niche. 

Encompassed by the very walls 
Your temple-builders made, 

Ere death unto the finder calls, 

Seize fast the long-tongued jade.’ 

All that’s plain enough, isn’t it?” 

“Now that the mystery of the first verse has been 
cleared away, I confess that the lines of the second become 
more significant,” I replied. “The lines, ‘The treasure in 
the niche’ have, from the first, encouraged in me the 
suspicion that the writer might, indeed, be referring to 
the hiding-place of precious stones. But, while a certain 
temple undoubtedly is referred to, the lines, ‘Your temple- 
builders made,’ and ‘Seize fast the long-tongued jade’ 
have baffled me. There is nothing to indicate where the 
temple may be found, and, as ‘jade’ undoubtedly signifies 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 143 


a woman, it is scarcely probable that she has been living 
all these years. These reflections have led me to believe 
that the language was only figurative, after all—that ‘The 
treasure in the niche’ was Truth, and that the ‘long- 
tongued jade’ who must be seized before Death calls to 
the ‘finder,” was Opportunity.” 

Throwing back his head, Blakeslee laughed loud and 
boyishly. 

“And so they are—so they are,” he said pacifically, 
as he saw the anger in my eyes. “But let us look at 
the thing from a distinctively material viewpoint. 
Briefly, then, the writer tells us that having discovered 
the hiding-place of the stones, and succeeded in getting 
away with one, he finds himself compelled to seek safety 
in flight. Others, less fortunate than he has been, may 
return for the treasure in the niche, if they will, but, so 
far as he is concerned, the game isn’t worth the candle. 
Besides telling us that the treasure is in the niche, he also 
says that the seeker will find it within ‘the very walls 
your temple-builders made.’ The ‘very’ indicates that 
the walls are the same that had been reared by the builders 
of the temple in which the stones were at the time of their 
disappearance, ‘your temple-builders’ undoubtedly being 
the builders of the temple in which you are especially 
interested—in short, the temple originally associated with 
the gems.” 

Fairly gasping for breath as the force of this inter¬ 
pretation became impressed upon me, I voiced my last 
protest. 

“But the jade—the jade—” I began. 

“That line is at once the most important and intelligible 
of all,” he said. “The word has, of course, several mean¬ 
ings—a tired horse, a woman, and a certain kind of stone 
that is plentiful enough in India. Many jars, idols, and 


144 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


other ornaments are made of this stone, and the line in 
the verse apparently refers to a piece of jade carved in 
some form that shows a long tongue. In this stone you 
doubtless will find Diamond Number Two. But the 
writer warns us that the possession of this is likely to 
prove fatal to the finder, for he says: ‘Ere Death unto 
the finder calls’!” 

“That is all very well,’’ I muttered moodily, “but how 
are we to know where to look for this temple?” 

“My dear fellow, this sagacious, plainly spoken uncle 
of yours had so little confidence in the perception of his 
prospective nephew that he left nothing to chance,” replied 
Blakeslee laughingly. “He has told you.” 

“Told me!” I exclaimed as I took the sheet that Blake¬ 
slee held out to me. 

“You said, I believe, that you tried to find an acrostic 
in the lines,” Blakeslee went on. 

“I tried the first verse only, but I failed. The first 
letters of the lines are ‘R-a-j-i-i-d-t-s’—a combination that 
is devoid of sense.” 

“There is no ‘t,’ protested Blakeslee. “The seventh line 
begins with an apostrophe. The word, therefore, is 
Rajiid’s. In the second verse the acrostic is plain— 
‘Lost eyes.’ Thus we have ‘Rajiid’s Lost Eyes.’ Taking 
these words in conjunction with the idea expressed in the 
first four lines of the poem—namely, that the diamonds 
flashed just as Buddha gazed—it is easy to infer that 
the diamonds served as the eyes themselves. Therefore, 
the diamonds are the lost eyes. Now, as temples often 
are designated by the names of the towns in which they 
stand, it is reasonable to assume that the Rajiid mentioned 
is the name of the town in which we are to find our temple. 
Have you an Indian Gazetteer among your books?” 

I had one, and quickly placed it in his hands. Blakeslee 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 145 


turned the pages deliberately. At length he stopped and, 
taking his pipe from his mouth, read aloud: 

“ ‘Rajiid, Nauwar: population, three hundred and 
twenty-five. Shoorgai, forty miles.’ ” 

As he passed the open book to me, he added: 

“Well, there’s your temple, laddie. And now give me 
a place to turn in, won’t you? When I got to London 
it was too late for me to get a train out to the mater’s 
place, so I thought I would come up and smoke a pipe 
with you. I won’t be up to town again for a week or 
so—unless—well, I’ll see that thing through with you at 
Hetley, if you like.” 

That night Blakeslee shared my bed with me. He was 
soon asleep, and it was not long before he had the bed 
to himself; for, after tossing restlessly for a couple of 
hours, I rose and, donning my bathrobe, paced the floor 
of the library until after daybreak. At breakfast it was 
arranged that I should communicate with the rector of 
Hetley Church, and that, as soon thereafter as might be 
practicable, Blakesle should go with me to the vault where 
our gruesome task was to be performed. 

When Blakeslee left me, I at once proceeded to for¬ 
mulate a general plan for the intended undertaking. 

All his life my father had been watched by spies. In 
Glyncamp, who had so nearly succeeded in obtaining from 
him the secret of the mysterious verses, I recognized a 
powerful enemy. Was he working in the interest of 
Meschid or in his own? Were his interests or those of 
Meschid allied with interests of the native Indians who 
had attempted to get the stones from my father? If not, 
how many independent jewel-seekers were to be numbered 
among my persecutors? 

I saw at once that it was all-important that I should 
move with secrecy. Glyncamp was the man I most 


146 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


dreaded, and I shuddered when I reflected what might 
happen to me, now that the mystery lay open in my mind, 
if Glyncamp should succeed in getting me in his power. 
How easily this might be effected was shown by my 
experience in that dimly lighted house of the Pasha’s, 
when, in the guise of a veiled Turkish woman, he had 
sat, unrecognized, in the room with me for hours. 

In less than an hour I had decided to abandon the 
policy of retrenchment that had been inaugurated by my 
father. All my energies, financial and otherwise, now 
would be directed to the task of obtaining these diamonds. 
I would win Pauline, and, by publicly transferring the 
gems to other ownership, I would remove the curse that 
had pursued my father to his grave and now was casting 
its shadow over me. 

Sending for the head of one of the most prominent 
private detective agencies in London, I directed him to 
secure all possible information relative to Glyncamp’s past 
life, and to locate him and keep him under surveillance. 
Some of this information reached me quickly. 

I learned that the man was a native of Ohio, and that, 
having won considerable celebrity as a mind-reader in the 
United States, he had gone to Paris, where his perfor¬ 
mances had excited extraordinary interest. Impressed by 
his singular ability, the Russian government had offered 
him a large sum to go to that country and give his 
services to the secret police. He had about decided to 
accept this offer when a proposition coming to him from 
Turkey caused him to change his plans. He went to 
Constantinople, and his arrival in the Turkish capital was 
followed quickly by the discovery of the secret plans of 
a revolutionary society. This resulted in more than a 
score of executions. Then Glyncamp’s trail was lost, 
only to be found again when he appeared in England with 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 147 


Meschid Pasha. Upon leaving London with the Pasha, 
the mind-reader again had disappeared. 

Convinced of the correctness of Blakeslee’s interpreta¬ 
tion of the mysterious verses, I decided that the sooner 
the tomb in Hetley churchyard was opened the better 
would be my chance of keeping the proceeding secret. 
I saw that I must do one of two things. Either I would 
have to write to the rector, or I would have to see him 
personally. I realized that writing on such a subject 
would be unwise in the circumstances, but I reflected that, 
if I made two visits to Hetley, I would take a double 
chance of exciting the suspicion of spies. 

In the end, I came to the conclusion that the better 
plan would be to summon Blakeslee, and, accompanied 
by him, get to Hetley about the middle of some afternoon, 
and, after obtaining the rector’s consent to the proceeding, 
go to the churchyard at night and perform the necessary 
task. 

I selected as the date of our visit to Hetley the second 
day of the new moon, hoping that in the darkness our 
visit to the churchyard would be unobserved by villagers. 

Fortunately, all weather conditions were in our favor. 
Blakeslee and I arrived at Hetley in a driving rain. We 
found our way to the rectory without trouble, and were 
there greeted by the Rev. John Wivering, the rector. To 
him I explained who I was, and I told him that the purpose 
of my visit was to obtain from the inside lining of 
Lieutenant Wortley’s coat a paper of the greatest impor¬ 
tance which had been placed there by my uncle. The 
fact that this was there, I said, had been revealed by a 
document which I found among the papers of my father. 

Though a little startled at first by the nature of my pur¬ 
pose, the rector assented readily enough to my request. 
The key to the vault was in the sexton’s room in the 


148 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


church, but the sexton himself was confined to his bed by 
an attack of quinsy. The rector offered to summon a 
couple of villagers to give us any assistance that we 
might require, but we assured him that the task was so 
comparatively simple we needed no aid. 

Convinced that I was the person I represented myself 
to be, and that my purpose was perfectly legitimate, the 
rector readily promised to maintain the strictest secrecy 
concerning the proceeding. We had tea with the good 
man and his wife; and, soon after darkness fell, Blakeslee 
and I, carrying a satchel that we had brought with us, 
repaired to the churchyard. 

The task of conquering the rusty lock occupied more 
than ten minutes, but it yielded at last. The rust-en¬ 
crusted iron door moved inward, and a rush of damp air 
passed our faces. 

Stepping quickly inside the vault, I drew a dark lantern 
from the satchel and bade Blakeslee close the door. A 
few moments later the lantern’s fan-like ray was sweeping 
the floor, roof, and walls. 

In the general aspect of the vault there was nothing 
to inspire an average man with a sense of morbidness. 
The open space was about ten feet square. The walls 
were of sandstone, and in these were set slabs of yellowish 
marble on which were inscribed in black letters the 
epitaphs of the persons entombed behind them. The slab 
bearing the name of Lieutenant Wortley was almost level 
with the floor. 

From the satchel we took chisels and mallets. The 
plaster surrounding the slab was easily crumbled, and, 
working quietly and quickly, we succeeded in releasing 
the slab in about twenty minutes. Behind this we en¬ 
countered a row of bricks. These were soon removed, 
and, at last, we beheld the side of the box we sought. 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 149 


Without pausing, we addressed ourselves to the most 
formidable part of our task—that of withdrawing the 
box from the niche into which it had been thrust. But 
the efforts of our perspiring, muscle-strained bodies told 
at last. Then, with fingers quivering as a result of the 
violence of our efforts, we produced a couple of screw¬ 
drivers and began to remove the screws from the cover 
of the box. The raising of this disclosed the top of a 
casket covered with black cloth. 

Once more we returned to work with our screw-drivers, 
and the second lid soon was lifted. Beneath this was a 
coffin, crudely fashioned of lead. Fearing that this was 
sealed with metal, we examined it carefully, and were 
relieved to find that, like the others, the cover was only 
screwed down. 

At length, Blakeslee and I, having worked our way 
around the gruesome box, came together. My companion 
was withdrawing the last screw. In a few moments the 
result of our quest would be known to us. 

“Well, Cecil, let’s have it off,” said Blakeslee after a 
brief period of hesitation, during which each of us looked 
at the pale face and questioning eyes of the other. 

Bending, Blakeslee grasped one end of the lid and I 
took the other. As we lifted this, I kept my gaze on the 
metal cover until we laid it on the floor. Then, for 
the first time, I turned my eyes to that which its removal 
revealed. 

“By Jove!” Blakeslee gasped, and stopped. 

Well might we have been astonished at the object that 
now presented itself to our view—the body of a soldier, 
clad in a scarlet jacket and blue trousers. The head was 
large, and on the young, handsome features there was 
an expression of dignified serenity that one might have 
expected to find on the face of a sleeping Charlemagne. 


150 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


“Why, the man looks as if he might have been alive 
this morning !” I gasped. 

Kneeling beside the still figure, Blakeslee began to 
unbutton the jacket with such gentleness that one would 
have thought he was afraid of waking the sleeper. 

“They cut his head a bit,” mused Blakeslee, as he 
glanced at the dark hair critically. 

He had scarcely spoken, when, throwing back the folds 
of the jacket, he exposed the bare torso of the still figure. 

“That’s what did it, though,” whispered my soldier 
friend, pointing to a round, bluish hole in the middle of 
the chest. “He was facing the brown devils when he 
fell—one of the Queen’s own lads was this one, Cecil.” 

But my gaze had wandered lower. There I saw two 
lines—one perpendicular, the other horizontal—that 
formed a cross, made, as I knew by the embalmers. These 
lines had been roughly stitched, but some of the catgut 
threads had been torn away. 

Blakeslee gave utterance to a little exclamation of dis¬ 
may. 

“Some one has been here before us,” I muttered be¬ 
tween chattering teeth. 

“Give me the scissors,” directed Blakeslee grimly. 

I passed them to him, then, with trembling limbs, I, 
too, knelt beside the box. 

A few moments later, when my friend again closed the 
scarlet jacket over the cold breast, I, sitting limply on the 
floor, thrust into the inner pocket of my coat a hard, 
oblong object that was sewed in a little bag of oiled silk 
which exhaled the odor of fragrant spices—a bag that I 
did not attempt to open then. 

I tottered to my feet, and, as Blakeslee took one of 
the dead man’s hands, I grasped the other. 

“Good night, old chap,” Blakeslee murmured, address- 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 151 


ing the dead soldier. “Perhaps, some morning, the 
same bugle music will wake us both.” 

As carefully as we had opened the three boxes, we 
closed them again. We made no undue haste to leave 
the place. To the dead we gave all that was its due. 
Every screw that we returned to its place was well driven, 
and when the big box had been thrust back into the niche, 
we replaced the stones as well as we were able. I resolved, 
however, that more expert hands than ours soon should 
be entrusted with this task. 

It was after nine o’clock when, after thanking the 
rector, we returned to the railway station, just in time 
to catch a train for London. It was six in the morning 
when, sitting at my desk, with Blakeslee at my side, I 
severed the threads that had closed the little silken bag. 

Within the bag I found a roll of chamois-skin, and 
in this a roll—a diamond. 

Not until I shall lie in that deep sleep that sealed the 
eyes of the red-jacketed hero I saw at Hetley shall I cease 
to feel a thrill of fear and wonder as I recall the effect 
produced by the object that the unfolding chamois-skin 
disclosed to my view. 

Catching, holding and multiplying the rays of the lamp¬ 
light that fell upon it, the marvelous gem suddenly seemed 
to become the focal point of ten thousand dazzling beams 
—a whiteheated thing that was being slowly consumed in 
its own blaze of glory—a self-damned soul on which 
Heaven and hell had heaped their fires. 

As I tottered backward, Blakeslee grasped my arm. 
Looking at him then, I knew that his long face mirrored 
the lividness and horror of my own. 

“Cecil, we must stop it!” he gasped, faintly. “If it is 
seen-! Come, come, man—we must put it out!” 

We glanced around us with apprehensive, searching 



152 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


eyes. The shades were lowered and the doors were 
closed, but we asked ourselves whether it was possible 
that no eyes other than our own should have seen this 
outburst of supernatural radiance. 

For several moments my courage seemed to fail, and 
I could not bring myself to the point of touching the 
dazzling stone. At length, however, I reached for the 
chamois-skin, and, after dropping this over the gem, I 
placed the diamond in a drawer of my desk. 

“You can’t keep it there,” said Blakeslee in a hoarse 
whisper. 

“No,” I said. “To-morrow—to-day-” 

“If spies are hovering around you the way they hovered 
around your father, England is too small a place for that. 
You must get it somewhere-” 

“I’ve thought all that out, old man,” I answered, firmly. 

“What are you going to do with it?” my friend de¬ 
manded, curiously. 

“I won’t tell you that,” I replied. 

An expression of wonder leaped into Blakeslee’s eyes. 

“You—you mean you dare not trust me!” he ex¬ 
claimed. 

“Yes,” I answered, promptly. “I do not trust myself. 
If it is known that you and I possess this secret, there 
is one who may have it in his power to get it from us. 
When we find the other stone we will see them together. 
Meantime, both you and I must be ignorant of the 
hiding-place of these.” 

Blakeslee nodded. 


“You’re afraid of Glyncamp, then,” he said, medita¬ 
tively. “Well, you are right. It is best that neither 
of us should know. But how are you going to manage 
it? 




THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 153 


“I ll be out of England within the next twenty hours.” 

Blakeslee frowned. 

“You are going to the Continent?” he asked. 

“No,” I answered, shortly. “But if you are willing to 
join me in my search for the other stone, we will set out 
five months from to-day. Until that day we must not 
meet.” 

“How long will we be gone?” Blakeslee asked. 

“Three months.” 

“I can get a furlough for that period, I suppose,” he 
murmured, musingly. He paused; then, with a little 
shrug of the shoulders, he held out both hands to me, as 
he added: “All right, then, Cecil—furlough or no fur¬ 
lough, you can count on me.” 

I grasped his hands. 

“And you are going to give the gems to the Pasha for 
the girl?” he murmured, dubiously. 

I nodded. 

“Well, Cecil, either the girl is indeed an houri, or 
you’re a fool,” Blakeslee muttered as he turned away. 

Ten hours later I boarded a west-bound Cunarder at 
Queenstown. In a belt I carried one of the lost eyes of 
the Rajiid Buddha. 

During the six days occupied by the voyage, I for¬ 
mulated my plans for the quest of the second diamond and 
the protection of the first. 

Several days before Blakeslee and I had gone to Hetley, 
I had seen in an English newspaper an account of some 
of the adventures of an American traveler named For¬ 
sythe. This man had made travel a vocation, and, in 
the employ of scientists and institutions of learning, he 
had brought from various parts of the world objects of 
interest that now formed parts of famous collections. He 
was described as a man of fertile resource and unimpeach- 


154 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


able integrity. I had heard of him before, and there was 
something in his personal characteristics and mode of 
life that had appealed to my imagination, and sometimes 
I had even gone so far as to envy him his experiences. 

I now reasoned that, taking advantage of this man’s 
resourcefulness and reputation, I might cause the diamond 
to be removed from India in a manner that would prevent 
anyone from suspecting the real purpose of a visit to 
Rajiid. More than this, I also conceived the idea, not 
only of keeping Forsythe in ignorance of the fact that 
he was to have the second diamond in his possession, but 
compelling him to be the temporary, and unsuspecting, 
custodian of the stone I had found at Hetley. After 
having Forsythe conceal the Hetley stone, I would arrange 
with Dulmer, my solicitor, to have an agent remove the 
sealed package containing it from the place in which it 
might be kept by the absent Forsythe. Not even should 
Dulmer know the nature of the packet’s contents. 

My instructions to Dulmer also bade him be prepared 
to have in the United States a man who, as soon as he 
should receive the word to do so, might take forcible 
possession of all objects that I might cause Forsythe to 
take to that country. The signal for these double thefts 
of my own property would be a report of my death to 
Dulmer. Each detail of the plan was thought out care¬ 
fully. 

To most persons this plan, with all its elaboration of 
details, might have appeared not only unnecessary, but 
altogether absurd. But the strange power of Glyncamp 
had impressed me with so much respect and alarm that, 
with so much at stake, I resolved to leave nothing to 
chance. I was resolved that no man in the world should 
fall into Glyncamp’s power, who in sickness or in health, 
would be able to form a mental picture of the true cus- 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 155 


todian of the Hetley stone or the place in which it might 
be concealed. 

Upon arriving in New York, I engaged a room in a 
house occupied by a family that was in reduced circum¬ 
stances. Assuming the name of Alfred Ferguson, I 
allowed my beard to grow, and, dressing only in cheap 
garments, I kept out of the streets as much as possible. 
Inquiries which I made concerning Forsythe revealed 
that he still was in South America, and probably would 
not return to the United States for two months. 

I next proceeded to address myself to a task which I 
had set for myself while I still was on the steamer. 
Obtaining some plaster of paris I made a cast of the 
Hetley diamond. Then, taking this cast to a Maiden 
Lane lapidary, I directed him to supply me with two 
paste counterfeits. I had thought that this was a com¬ 
paratively simple undertaking, but I was soon undeceived. 
The lapidary told me that the work would have to be 
done in Switzerland, and that it would be impossible for 
me to have the imitation stones in less than two months. I 
gave the order, left a deposit on it, and went out of the 
shop. 

I had been in New York only ten days when I received 
from Blakeslee, the only man who knew my address, a 
cipher despatch that read as follows: 

Parson says Glyn knows Hetley affair. Burglars have ransacked 
your London apartments and spies are watching the house. Keep 
close where you are, and look sharp. I am not suspected. 

(Signed) B 

The three weeks that followed were uneventful, and I 
spent most of my time in my room. I heard that For¬ 
sythe was on his way to New York, and I wrote to my 
solicitors to arrange to have fifty thousand dollars placed 


156 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


to my credit in a Philadelphia bank. Two weeks later 

this sum was at my disposal. 

At last my patience was rewarded. The daily news¬ 
papers reported Forsythe’s arrival, and from the Maiden 
Lane lapidary I received the two paste stones that had 
been cut for me in Switzerland. 

The lapidary appeared to be enthusiastic over the merits 
of the imitations when he greeted me. 

“Were there two such real diamonds in existence, they 
would be worth millions, sir,” he said. 

To give the lapidary his due, I must confess that the 
paste gems were so excellently wrought that they filled 
me with astonishment, for I never had suspected that the 
art of counterfeiting precious stones could attain such 
wonderful results. A man would, of course, have been 
little better than a fool to have been deceived by these 
paste baubles, but I scarcely had expected to see any 
brilliancy at all. The forms of the stones and a superior 
quality of material were sufficient to meet all my require¬ 
ments. 

I expressed thorough satisfaction with the manner in 
which the work had been done, and willingly paid the 
price that had been agreed upon. 

I next had a tinsmith make for me a cylinder six inches 
long and three inches in diameter. In this I placed the 
Hetley diamond, carefully packed; then, in accordance 
with my instructions, the tinsmith sealed both ends. This 
done, I shaved off the beard I had been wearing, provided 
myself with twenty-five thousand dollars, and called upon 
Forsythe. 

The incidents connected with that interview, as well as 
those that had to do with Forsythe’s journey to and from 
Rajiid, have been related by that gentleman himself. I, 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 157 


therefore, will restrict myself to a relation of my own 
experiences subsequent to that interview. 

Upon receiving from Forsythe’s messenger the key to 
the unknown safe-deposit box, I delivered it to a New 
York lawyer who had been named by Dulmer as his 
representative. Meantime, however, a detective, who was 
unknown to this lawyer, in accordance with my London 
solicitor’s directions, had kept a careful watch on Forsythe 
and had followed him to the office of the safe-deposit 
company. This detective then sent the name and address 
of the company to Dulmer, who, it will be remembered, 
knew nothing whatever of any diamond in which either 
my father or I had been interested. 

Embarking on the same vessel that took Forsythe to 
Europe, I spent nearly all my days and nights in my state¬ 
room in the second cabin. I was in my stateroom on 
the Arran when Forsythe boarded that steamer. 

Blakeslee, having obtained his furlough, secured a state¬ 
room near the second cabin quarters on the Arran. For 
weeks he had been indefatigably working in my interests, 
without causing any of the spies who were following me 
to suspect that he was in any way interested in my move¬ 
ments. To him three detectives, in his employ, had 
described the appearance of several of the spies who had 
been seen lurking around my former haunts. 

On the Arran were several Hindus. One of these con¬ 
formed with the description of a Hindu to whom certain 
spies had reported. Apparently this man, having failed 
in his mission to London, was returning to India without 
the knowledge of the fact that I was on the same vessel. 
Chance, however, led me in his way one night when I had 
determined to have a few words with Blakeslee. 

My friend saw that I was recognized, and in obedience 
to a warning signal from him, I retreated. That night 


158 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


the Hindu died under mysterious circumstances. He was 
only an unknown Hindu, so the officers of the Arran 
made no investigation. All happened very conveniently. 

The discovery of this spy caused me to change my 
plans. Despite what I had told Forsythe—and I must 
confess that my representations to that gentleman were 
sometimes rather far from the truth—I had intended to 
let him go to Raj iid alone, while Blakeslee and I took 
another route. I now decided, however, to have Blakeslee 
and Forsythe follow me. 

At Arungabad I found two brothers—Parsees—who, 
like other members of their sect, had little respect for 
Buddhism or its disciples. The elder of these brothers 
was named Ahmed-Kal. The younger was Bunda. I 
had six servants, but of these the two Parsees were the 
only ones whom I felt I could trust. 

I felt reasonably certain, until I drew near Rajiid, 
that I was successful in keeping clear of spies. Upon 
my arrival at Rajiid, I visited the holy well and its 
temple, as any other traveler might have done. I watched 
a jaboowallah perform his tricks, and then passed on my 
way. While in the temple I was careful not to display 
any undue interest, but I had little difficulty in marking 
the jade idol in a niche near the ceiling. 

After leaving Rajiid, I proceeded to a village about 
ten or twelve miles beyond. Here, pretending to be ill, 
I halted to await the arrival of Forsythe and Blakeslee 
at Rajiid. In due time this was reported to me. 

Thus far I had believed myself to be free from sus¬ 
picion, and already I had begun to laugh at the fears 
which had caused me to make such elaborate preparations 
for my quest for the hidden gem. I had little difficulty in 
convincing myself that, without Forsythe and Blakeslee, 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 159 


I might have purchased the jade idol and made my way 
out of India. 

Satisfied, then, that my purpose was not suspected, I 
despatched Ahmed-Kal to Forsythe with a note directing 
him to purchase certain articles and return home by way 
of Calcutta. By the time Ahmed-Kal returned, however, 
I was undeceived. Scores of native, cat-like eyes had 
been watching me for hours. 

It was Bunda who first told me this—Bunda, the 
brother of Ahmed-Kal. From one of my alarmed na> 
tive attendants he had learned that I had come to Rajiid 
to take from their place of concealment the lost eyes of 
the bronze Buddha. 

When Bunda told me this, I laughed at his fears, but 
I put in his hands a little parcel wrapped in khaki-cloth, 
and bade him take my horse and set out for Bombay. I 
told him that fortune awaited him there if he delivered 
to a certain man, whose name I gave, the parcel that I 
entrusted to his keeping. I explained also that if he 
betrayed his trust the soldiers of the White King would 
flay him, for that which I had given to him was the 
White King’s own. The parcel contained the imitation 
gems. 

When I saw that the man believed me, I provided him 
with funds for his long journey, for as fast as one horse 
succumbed to speed he was to purchase another—the fleet¬ 
est he could obtain. When Bunda left me I awaited, with 
all the calmness I could command, the hour that would 
bring to me the report of Forsythe’s departure from 
Rajiid. 

But, before that hour came, the blow which I dreaded 
had fallen, and it had come from an unexpected source. 
Bunda was scarcely more than a dozen miles from Rajiid 
when I was suddenly set upon, beaten insensible, and 


160 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


bound by my own attendants. It was in vain that Ahmed- 
Kal tried to defend me, and even he suspected for a time 
that his brother, knowing of the danger, had sought 
safety in flight. 

When I recovered consciousness I was bruised and 
bleeding, and was in the temple grounds where Forsythe 
found me. Before me stood the jaboowallah who had 
exhibited his skill as a wonder-worker when I was leaving 
the Rajiid temple. Addressing me in excellent English, 
he questioned me shrewdly concerning the object of my 
journey to India, and my reasons for visiting Rajiid. I 
told him I was a traveler, bound for the military station 
at Shoorgai. His eyes flashed ominously while I was 
speaking. When I finished he said: 

‘‘The sahib lies. He is Lord Galonfield, and he has 
come to us to profane and rob our shrines. Unless he 
tells us where we may find the sacred gems that were once 
the eyes in Buddha’s image, he will speak no more.” 

I shrugged my shoulders as I answered: 

“I have told you that my name is Ferguson. The 
hiding-place of the lost eyes is unknown to me. But if, 
doubting what I say to you, you find courage to shed my 
blood, there will come to Rajiid men with coats as red 
as the blood you now design to spill.” 

“The White King’s soldiers will come in vain,” the 
jaboowallah answered, calmly. “Though I shall cleave 
the sahib’s head from his shoulders, yet shall he not die 
except by his own act, nor shall the soldiers find him. 
Has the sahib any wish to express before he dies?” 

I hesitated. 

“Yes,” I said. “I am informed that, since I left your 
temple, another traveler has come to Rajiid—Forsythe 
Sahib. Let him see my body, that he may report my 
death to my friends in England. It is better that they 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 161 


should know that I am dead than that they should spend 
their fortunes seeking me.” 

I saw the light of craftiness playing in the jaboowallah’s 
eyes. I knew his thought, and that Forsythe would be 
brought to me before I died. I knew, too, that I would 
not be allowed to die till they had the secret from me. 

“It shall be as the sahib has said,” the jaboowallah 
replied, but, as he spoke, my heart grew still, for he 
unsheathed a sword. 

At the feet of the jaboowallah several natives now 
spread a square piece of white cloth, and eight or ten 
brown, sinewy hands forced me to sit on it in a cross- 
legged position. This done, the natives, retreating, left 
me sitting alone, at the jaboowallah’s feet. 

“If the sahib wants to count the minutes and hours 
that precede the coming of his friends let him sit still as 
the great Buddha on his throne,” the jaboowallah said. 

His eyes now gleamed like fiery coals, and, as they 
bent their gaze upon me, I felt my will go out. The 
jaboowallah raised his arm, and thrice in the moonlight 
I saw the flashing of his swift-circling blade. A keen 
pain quivered in my neck and set every nerve in my 
body tingling. 

“And so shall the sahib await the coming of his 
friends,” said the jaboowallah as, sheathing his sword, he 
turned from me. 

A few minutes later the sound of retreating feet died 
away. I was alone. 

I was not deceived. The wound I had received was 
nothing more than a mere scratch, however, which this 
strange man's art had caused to completely encircle my 
neck. It marked the beginning of the series of tortures 
to which I was to be subjected in the course of an attempt 
to wring my secret from me. 


162 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


I saw Ahmed-Kal, trembling with fright, mount and 
ride away in the direction of Rajiid. For more than 
an hour, conscious of the fact that I was watched by 
scores of unseen eyes, I sat there, never stirring. 

At length, from over a rise in the road, there came to 
my expectant ears the welcome sounds of approaching 
hoof beats. Then a little cavalcade came into view. At 
its head rode Forsythe, Blakeslee, and Ahmed-Kal. 

I heard the horses stop in the road, and a few minutes 
later I saw my friends approaching me. 

I knew no word that might pass between us would 
escape the ears of spies who were concealed in the foliage 
around me, but I was resolved that Forsythe and Blakes¬ 
lee should not be suspected of being the real custodians 
of the precious gem that was concealed in the jade image. 

But, shrewd as my friends usually were, this mys¬ 
terious situation now disconcerted them. They thought 
that I, believing myself to be decapitated, had lost my 
reason. Despite my protests, Forsythe called to his at¬ 
tendants, and Blakeslee drew his revolver. A score of 
armed natives leaped upon them. Forsythe went down, 
but Blakeslee, fighting like a very demon, shot four men 
and broke away. He got to where the horses had been 
left, and, mounting his own—an animal that had been 
carefully chosen—he made off in the direction of Shoor- 
gai. 

Ahmed-Kal, who had attempted to defend himself, 
was beheaded. Forsythe was borne away insensible. 

An hour later, while strung up to a beam by my hands, 
and with heavy stones bound to my feet, I confessed— 
confessed that I had found the lost diamonds under the 
coping of a well near which I had encamped, and that 
Bunda, the Parsee, was bearing them to Bombay. 

Further tortures were now suspended, and I was im- 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 163 


prisoned in a dingy cave, scooped in the side of a hill. 
From one of my guards I learned that Forsythe had been 
released, and had left Rajiid. Why the jaboowallah 
caused his vocal cords to be cut I cannot tell. I suppose, 
however, it was the brown devil’s method of punishing 
him for calling to his attendants while he was in the 
sacred precincts of the temple. 

I knew that, as a result of my pretended confession, 
riders and telegrams were being despatched to many vil¬ 
lages in an attempt to head off the fleeing Bunda. A week 
passed, however, before I was summoned to the presence 
of the jaboo wallah and there confronted with the paste 
stones I had obtained from Switzerland. 

I was asked whether or not these were the stones I had 
found in the wall. I replied that they were. 

Never have I beheld such a picture of chagrin as was 
presented by the jaboo wallah at that moment. He be¬ 
lieved that the famed eyes of the Rajiid Buddha had 
been nothing more than the imitation stones that now 
lay before him. 

I was told that I was free. Two hours later I was in 
the act of mounting the horse which was to bear me away 
from Rajiid when I was again assaulted. Once more I 
was thrust into the foul cave, and there, deprived of food 
and water, my sufferings soon became almost unendurable. 
In a week I felt that I was on the verge of becoming a 
raving maniac, then they gave me water and I was led 
out into the light. Something—whether it was the sun 
or a flash of burnished copper—suddenly dazzled me, and 
I fell. 

When I recovered consciousness, I found myself sit¬ 
ting on the floor of a squalid room, and muttering 
incoherently. 

“Give the sahib food,” a voice was saying. 


164 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


The speaker was the jaboowallah, and, as he passed 
out of the door in which he had been standing, I saw a 
European approach him. A moment later the stranger 
disappeared, but my single glance was enough. 

The stranger was Glyncamp! 

Had I betrayed my secret ? Whimpering and laughing 
like a foolish child, I cried for food. 

It mattered not how much the American mind-reader 
had learned from me, the knowledge came to him too late. 

A week later, shattered in health and mind, I crawled 
out of the dark cave in which I had been confined. 
Where were my gaurds, and why had no one brought 
me food ? As I stood, blinking the warm sunlight, I saw 
a man in khaki. I rubbed my eyes and looked again. 
The man was still before me, sitting on a stone, with a 
rifle across his knees. I called to him, and he turned. 
He shouted and discharged his gun in the air, and then 
ran toward me. It was a British soldier whom I never 
had seen before. 

“Are you Galonfield?” he asked. 

“Yes—yes—Tm—” I began falteringly. 

The man, bringing his heels together, saluted me as if 
I had been an officer. 

“Your friend, Lieutenant Blakeslee, is here, sir,” he 
said. 

Sky, trees, and distant native huts seemed to be flung 
together in a mighty mass, and I was dazzled by the 
whirling colors. I tottered forward, and, as I fell, the 
soldier caught me in his arms. When I came to my 
senses, I was lying on a camp cot, and Blakeslee was 
bending over me. 

‘What has happened?” I managed to gasp. 

“I got to Shoorgai, and brought down the boys,” he 
said. “For two weeks we’ve combed the district in our 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 165 


search for you. You are twenty miles from where I saw 
you last. The jaboowallah fled—saw the game was up, 
I suppose.” 

“And Glyncamp?” I asked anxiously. 

“Oh, Glyncamp hasn’t been here, old man.” 

“Yes,” I muttered, weakly. “Glyncamp has been here 
and has learned all I knew.” 

As soon as I was able to make the journey, Blakeslee 
and I returned to England. There I learned that my 
plans had not miscarried. The jade image and the cylin¬ 
der were safe in New York. 

Meantime, Forsythe had been incarcerated in an Amer¬ 
ican insane asylum. Not knowing anything of the mam 
ner in which he had been persecuted, I did not suspect 
that he was at that moment perfectly sane and the victim 
of the jaboowallah’s spies. 

The very thought of the gems themselves was hateful 
to me, and I resolved to get rid of them at the earliest 
possible opportunity. To this end I sent to Meschid a 
letter that read as follows: 

Your Excellency: Having succeeded in performing the task which 
you set for me when we last met in London, I am now prepared to 
deliver to you the articles which you demanded in exchange for the 
honor I then sought at your hands. If, therefore, you will meet me 
in London or Paris with the person who constitutes the third party 
to our understanding, all the conditions of our compact will be 
promptly executed. 


Three weeks passed before I received a reply. The 
Pasha said that, in order to fulfil the conditions we had 
agreed upon, it would be necessary for me to present my¬ 
self at his residence in Constantinople and there deliver 
to him the articles which, as had been stipulated, he 
should receive. 

But I was still a marked man, and there were strong 


166 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


reasons for my hesitation to go beyond the pale of Eng¬ 
lish law and the protection which it affords even to the 
humblest of England’s sons and daughters. 

I now sent to an attache of the British embassy at 
Constantinople a letter in which I explained that I was 
bethrothed to Meschid’s daughter, Pauline. I also said 
that, owing to my failure to get in communication with 
her, I desired to have agents employed to discover her 
present whereabouts. The answer I received to this was 
a telegram that read: 

Pauline is Meschid’s stepdaughter. He married her mother, the 
widow of the late Prince Maranotti, of Basselanto, Italy. The mother 
died two years ago. Pauline fled to her stepbrother, the present 
Prince Maranotti. Her whereabouts are unknown to us. 

At the end of a fortnight I was in Italy. Leaving 
Naples, I started for Basselanto. I had covered only a 
portion of the journey, however, when, in a newspaper 
that came to my hands, I saw a startling piece of intel¬ 
ligence. 

Prince Maranotti had been murdered at Basselanto 
only a few hours before! 

The dead man’s body, bruised and scratched, appar¬ 
ently by human hands, had been found at the foot of a 
cliff over which, it was thought, it had been hurled by 
the murderer. 

Two men were suspected of having committed the 
crime. Of these one was a man with a singularly 
grotesque face, whom no one in the vicinity of Basse¬ 
lanto remembered having seen before the day on which 
the Prince had met his death. A few hours before the 
body was found, however, he had been seen hurrying to 
the station, apparently in a great state of agitation. 

The second person under suspicion was an American 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 167 


college professor—Pietro Maranotti—a cousin to the 
man who had been slain. 

Arriving at Basselanto, I made inquiries concerning 
Pauline. From servants I learned that she had not been 
seen at Basselanto since, as an infant, she had been taken 
away by her mother, an Englishwoman, who, having been 
married to the former Prince, had fled from his cruelty. 

Despite all the privations to which I had been subjected 
since I had undertaken the quest of the Rajiid diamonds, 
my love for the beautiful young woman to whom Meschid 
had introduced me, had been strengthened rather than 
diminished. I asked myself why, if she was in trouble, 
she had made no attempt to communicate with me. I re¬ 
solved that to the solution of this mystery I would address 
myself with even more energy than I had displayed in my 
search for the gems which, as it had been arranged, were 
to constitute the price of Meschid Pasha’s consent to our 
marriage. I was determined to employ all my time and 
whatever fortune I could command in finding the woman 
I loved. 

Once more I had recourse to detectives. These I directed 
to trace the movements of Pauline from the time she 
escaped from Meschid’s harem. It was not long before 
these men reported that they were crossing the trails of 
other detectives who were engaged in a similar search. 
Then I learned that the employer of these was no other 
than the mysterious Glyncamp, of whom I had seen or 
heard nothing since I saw him in India. 

My available funds were growing low, and I decided to 
sell the diamonds for which I had risked so much and for 
which Meschid Pasha had nothing to offer now. By doing 
this I would attain two objects. First, they would yield to 
me a sum sufficient to enable me to liquidate all the debts 


168 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


I had contracted, and, secondly, I would cease to be an 
object of the persecution of the unseen enemies who still 
threatened me. Having arrived at this determination, I 
sailed for the United States. 

Upon my arrival in New York I went to the best-known 
jeweler in that city. To this man I told the history of 
the Rajiid stones, and offered them for sale. He replied 
that he was unwilling to buy such costly gems as a matter 
of speculation, but that he would try to find a purchaser. 
A few days later he wrote to me, requesting me to call on 
Hewitt Westfall. 

It was with Mr. Westfall that I went to the vault in 
which the cylinder and the jade image were deposited, 
and it was in his study that the cylinder was opened and 
the jade image broken. There, for the first time since the 
Indian Mutiny, the wonderful gems flashed together, and 
it is to Mr. Westfall that they now belong. 

To the purchaser of the lost eyes of Rajiid’s Buddha I 
told the story of my quest for them. Strangely enough, he 
appeared to have heard something of one or two of the 
persons I had mentioned, and he offered to cooperate with 
me in my search for Pauline if I would consent to submit 
to him certain reports that I had received from my agents. 
This I did not hesitate to do. 

Two weeks ago Mr. Westfall invited me to this dinner, 
and at that time he expressed the belief that he would be 
able to number among his guests the young woman whom 
I had known as Meschid’s daughter. He has kept his 
word, and now, in the presence of those who have heard 
the story of my adventures, I offer to her who inspired 
me with the determination to undertake them the love, 
name, and fortune which, many months ago, I offered to 
her in the London house of Meschid Pasha. 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 169 


As the Decapitated Man finished speaking, he rose from 
his chair and gazed earnestly toward where the Veiled 
Aeronaut sat with bowed head, at the foot of the table. 
But from the unseen lips of the heroine of his romantic 
tale there came no sound. 

The silence was broken at length by Hewitt Westfall, 
who, rising, said: 

“It is unfortunate that the endings of many true love 
stories should be so uncertain that we have to guess at 
them, but in this so much yet remains to be told that the 
story may be said to be scarcely more than begun. Even 
the lady to whom his lordship just has addressed himself 
has much to learn from others before she will be able to 
tell him whether or not joy or sorrow will crown the 
efforts he has made to win her.” 

The Fugitive Bridegroom, whose face now wore a 
grayish pallor, half rose from his seat. Glaring at the 
Decapitated Man, he asked, in a voice that trembled with 
emotion: 

“Do I understand, sir, that the lady to whom you have 
referred as ‘Pauline’ is—is my wife?” 

“Your wife!” exclaimed the Decapitated Man, looking 
wonderingly at the Veiled Aeronaut. 

“No,” said the Sentimental Gargoyle, in a tone of de¬ 
cision. “Though the lady may have given our friend, the 
Fugitive Bridegroom, some reason to believe that he was 
her husband, I protest that she is not his wife.” 

“And I maintain, sir-” began the Fugitive Bride¬ 

groom, impatiently. 

“Well, well, let the lady tell her own story,” interrupted 
the Nervous Physician, pettishly. “Until then-” 

“Stop, gentlemen,” said Westfall, calmly. “All of you 
shall be heard in good time, and it will be from the Veiled 
Aeronaut that we will hear next. But, as it is now well 




170 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


after midnight, we shall be compelled to wait until we 
reassemble in the evening. Meantime, according to our 
arrangement, there must be no discussion of the subjects 
that are reserved for after dinner.’’ 

The guests thereupon rose, and, with bewildered faces, 
made their way to their respective staterooms. 

Breakfast was not served until nine o’clock. The One- 
eyed Duckhunter, accompanied by the Decapitated Man, 
went out after ducks, while the Whispering Gentleman, 
the Homicidal Professor and the Hypochondriacal Painter 
sat down with Westfall to a game of bridge. The Fugitive 
Bridegroom and the Veiled Aeronaut remained in their 
staterooms, and the Sentimental Gargoyle found employ¬ 
ment in writing verses on a little table that was placed for 
him near the sarcophagus containing the mummy of the 
Princess Tushepu, of the Twentieth Dynasty. 

At three o’clock all except the Veiled Aeronaut sat 
down to luncheon. Dinner was served at half past seven, 
and, when this was finished, Westfall announced that 
the Veiled Aeronaut was prepared to relate the story of 
her adventures. 

The guests then seated themselves in comfortable atti¬ 
tudes and the Veiled Aeronaut began her story. 


CHAPTER VI 


A WANDERER FROM ARABY 

Incredible as my assertion may appear to you who 
have just heard Lord Galonfield relate his remarkable ad¬ 
ventures, I may truly say that not at any time since the 
night on which his lordship told me that he loved me have 
I believed that his conduct on that occasion was inspired 
by any motive other than a desire to obtain a fortune 
which, I was assured, he believed would go with my hand. 

Despite the fact that Meschid Pasha introduced me as 
his daughter, there is not a drop of Moslem blood in my 
veins. My mother was the daughter of Sir George Brid- 
well, a member of the British House of Commons. When 
she was only twenty years of age, she became the second 
wife of Prince Maranotti, the head of one of the noble 
families of Italy. By his first wife Prince Maranotti had 
a son—Victor—who was seven years old at the time of 
my mother’s marriage. 

I was born a year after my mother became the Princess 
Maranotti. For several months prior to my birth, the 
Prince’s unreasonable jealousy had caused him to treat 
my mother with a degree of cruelty that was almost 
inhuman. After I was born the Prince’s conduct became 
so unbearable that, when I was only five months old, my 
mother, with me in her arms, and accompanied only by 
a maid, fled from Italy. Her brother had been serving as 
an attache to the British embassy in Constantinople, and 
it was to him she fled now for protection. 

171 


172 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


Upon our arrival in the Turkish capital, my mother 
learned that her brother, having obtained leave of absence, 
had set out for England only a few days before. The 
funds then in her possession were little more than sufficient 
to take her and her infant and maid to England. This 
course, however, she hesitated to follow. Her father was 
a man dominated by a strong sense of duty, and she feared 
that he would compel her to return to Prince Maranotti, 
whose vengeful disposition was likely to cause him to 
inflict some terrible punishment upon her. Despite her 
fears, she finally decided to go to London, but she resolved 
that if Sir George reproached her with her conduct she 
would seek refuge with relatives of her mother. 

We were stopping then at a hotel in Pera, and, in order 
to elude Prince Maranotti, or such agents as he might 
have employed to seek her, my mother assumed the name 
of Mrs. Andrew Fenchurch. When her preparations for 
her journey were completed, she sent for a couple of 
carriages to take us and our luggage to the vessel on 
which we were to embark. Entering the first carriage, 
with me in her arms, my mother directed the maid to 
seat herself in the second, which contained articles of 
value, and to meet us at the quay. 

As the two carriages drew away from the hotel, my 
mother, though wearing a thick veil, still feared discovery, 
and so drew down the curtains of the vehicle in which she 
was seated. 

At length the carriage stopped, and my mother, raising 
one of the curtains, looked out. Instead of the entrance 
to the quay, she beheld the richly carved walls of a 
splendid courtyard. Throwing open the door, my mother 
called to the driver. The man made no reply, but a few 
moments later four negroes, seizing her by the arms, 
forced her to alight and enter a door which was opened at 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 173 


her approach. A fifth negro, closely following the others, 
carried me in his arms. When the negroes released my 
mother, she found herself in a sumptuous apartment 
which, she was informed, was one of a suite in the harem 
of Meschid Pasha. 

Too terrified to question further the black-skinned men 
who were stationed outside the door, my mother spent 
nearly twenty minutes of nerve-racking suspense. Then 
there entered the apartment a man about thirty-five years 
of age, with pleasing features and a sturdy figure. He was 
clad in Turkish dress, and in him my mother recognized 
one of the passengers who had been aboard the vessel that 
had brought her from Naples. 

To my mother this man then made the most ardent 
protestations of affection. Because of the black garments 
she had worn since her departure from Italy, he had 
thought her to be a widow, and had hoped to win her 
consent to become his wife. My mother indignantly 
spurned the affection that he offered her, and demanded 
her liberty. 

Apparently thoroughly crestfallen, Meschid retired. On 
the following day he told my mother he suddenly had 
been ordered to join the army in one of the Arabian 
provinces. This assignment, he said, would necessitate 
his absence from Constantinople for several months. He 
informed her, however, that during this period she would 
be treated with the utmost respect by the members of his 
household, but that she was not to make any attempt to 
regain her freedom. My mother, who was now a prisoner, 
resolved to submit to the conditions which the Pasha had 
imposed upon her until such a time as her brother might 
return to his post. 

Each week English and French newspapers were 
brought to my mother’s room by respectful attendants, 


174 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


and by means of these she learned that, shortly after his 
return to London, her brother had married and retired 
from the diplomatic service. More important than this, 
however, were reports that Prince Maranotti, believing 
that there had been ample grounds for his jealousy, was 
convinced that his wife had eloped with one of her 
admirers. Accordingly he had divorced her. 

When Meschid returned to Constantinople, his wooing 
of my mother was resumed. This time he did not sue 
in vain. The light came back to her eyes, and among the 
first of my memories were the songs she used to sing 
while the infatuated Pasha, standing beside the piano he 
had brought to her from Paris, turned the sheets of music 
that lay before her. In the years that followed she bore 
to Meschid three sons and two daughters. 

Perhaps it was my mother’s many evidences of affection 
for me, the child of her first marriage, that caused my 
stepfather to dislike me. But, though I knew I would 
never share the love that he bestowed upon my brothers 
and sisters, I never feared him. In his way he was kind 
to me. When my mother expressed a wish that I might 
have an English governess who should prepare me for 
that world that lay beyond the walls of the harem, her 
fond husband readily consented. 

My education was as strange as were my early associa¬ 
tions. I was taught English, French and Turkish, and 
soon became proficient in music and drawing. In my 
early youth I was inordinately fond of fairy tales. I was 
taught to read the Bible and the Koran, and of these the 
Koran was my favorite. But of all the books that were 
placed in my youthful hands, those which pleased me most 
were the works of the old Persian poets, whose lutes were 
attuned to the praise of Oriental loves, the songs of birds, 
the splashing of fountains and the voices of angels, peris 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 175 


and genii who lurked amid whispering trees and fragrant, 
nodding flowers. 

After her marriage to the Pasha, my mother was free 
to leave the house whenever she listed. But, whether she 
walked or rode through the crowded streets, there was 
none among those she passed who would be bold enough 
to imagine that the bright eyes that looked through her 
yashmak, or the graceful form that was enclosed by her 
farendje were those of a daughter of Old England, who, 
having been an unhappy Italian Princess, was now the 
contented wife of a distinguished Mussulman. 

Despite the indifference of my stepfather, I think I 
should have been content to remain in that luxurious, 
song-haunted harem forever, had not, when I was eighteen 
years of age, a terrible misfortune befallen me. This was 
the death of my mother. 

Then all light suddenly went out of my life. The songs 
which had made the harem seem to us like a corner of the 
Prophet’s paradise were heard no more, except when, like 
spirit voices, we heard them echoing faintly in the dim- 
lighted, rose-scented chambers of our memories. No more 
did Meschid enter the harem with smiling lips and 
expectant eyes. His face had become more stolid—his 
gaze more abstracted and severe. 

Two of my half-brothers—Abdul and Ildebrin—no 
longer made their quarters in the harem, and, after the 
departure of Ildebrin, then fourteen years of age, the 
place became more cheerless than before. When I was 
nineteen, my English governess died. I felt that I was 
quite friendless now. 

Fond as I was of dress and jewels, with which I was 
well supplied, vanity never had been numbered among my 
faults, but there came a time when the praise of plain- 
spoken women visitors brought to me the knowledge that 


176 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


my physical attractions were far greater than those of my 
dark-skinned half-sisters, who resembled their father, 
rather than their mother. These comparisons were always 
displeasing to me, for I saw that my sisters were becom¬ 
ing less and less disposed to mask the aversion with which 
I inspired them. For the first time I realized that I was 
living on the bounty of a man to whom I was bound by 
no ties of blood. Meschid was a devout Mussulman while 
I—half English, half Italian—had not a drop of Moslem 
blood in my veins. 

At length there reached the harem a rumor that Meschid 
Pasha, who during the lifetime of my mother had no 
other wife, was about to wed again. I knew that he or 
his daughters had no love for me, and I wondered what 
would be my position in the harem when the new wife 
was placed at its head. 

The star of my destiny had risen, however. Meschid 
had seen it, but not I. 

And so it came to pass, while I was preparing to go out 
among the shops one morning, that Meschid entered the 
harem, and, by a gesture, bade me accompany him to one 
of the rooms where we might be alone. 

After we seated ourselves, Meschid looked at me long 
and thoughtfully, without speaking. 

“Pauline,” he said, at length, “what is your faith?” 

It was the first time he ever had spoken to me on the 
subject of religion, and I colored with embarrassment. 

“My mother died a Christian, did she not?” I mur¬ 
mured. 

Meschid nodded. 

“Yes—she died a Christian,” he answered, with a sigh. 
“She made me promise I would not make you change your 
faith. That promise shall be kept.” 

Then, after a little pause, he added, gloomily: 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 177 


“Your father is a Christian, too.” 

I did not reply to this, and for several minutes Meschid 
sat looking abstractedly at the floor. 

What had my stepfather come to say to me? With a 
fluttering heart I looked around at the walls that once had 
constituted a part of my mother’s home. I knew that the 
time was at hand when I should say farewell to them 
forever. 

“Most Moslem girls marry before they are sixteen,” 
Meschid said, musingly. “You are nineteen, I believe.” 

The gates of Dreamland seemed to be opening their 
portals to me now, and I felt as if peris, standing at my 
visited my girlish fancies were gazing on me from the 
side, were pointing to where the heroes who so often had 
mystic city’s walls. 

“Yes—yes, I know,” I faltered. 

“If you are to remain a Christian, you must have a 
Christian husband,” Meschid said. 

A great fear smote me. Would there come a time when, 
like Giaour women, I would have to appear with my face 
unveiled in city streets ? 

“And I have one in view,” Meschid added. 

1 was trembling violently. For better or for worse, my 
fate was sealed. There was nothing I might do of my 
own volition—nothing I could say. 

Meschid rose. 

“We will start for England to-morrow,” he said. 

Involuntarily I clapped my hands. 

“For my mother’s country!” I exclaimed, half-joyfully. 
“Ah, it must be very beautiful in England, for my mother 
loved it so.” 

A frown settled on the Pasha’s face, and he looked at 
me darkly. 

“Yes,” he said, sighing as he turned away. “Yes, your 


178 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


mother loved it—once. But, sometimes, I fancied she 
was happy here.” 

He left me then, and, with feverish haste, I began my 
preparations for the long journey on which I was to set 
out on the morrow. 

When we had embarked on the steamer that was to 
take us from the Bosphorus to Naples, I laid aside my 
yashmak, but, in obedience to the command of Meschid, 
I had all meals served in my stateroom, which I never left 
without a heavy green or gray veil over my face. At 
Naples we boarded a train for the north, and, in due time, 
we arrived in England. 

In London a house was in readiness for our occupancy, 
and I marveled much when I saw how greatly its appoint¬ 
ments resembled those of Turkish homes. It had its 
harem and its selamlik, but here I had less liberty than in 
Constantinople, for, under no circumstances, was I per¬ 
mitted to leave the harem unless I was accompanied by 
my stepfather. We took several drives together, and on 
these occasions I wore one of the French gowns that con¬ 
stituted part of my traveling wardrobe, but I was not 
permitted to raise my veil, which, unlike a yashmak, had 
no opening for the eyes. 

While I was in this London house I suddenly was sum¬ 
moned to the selamlik and there found myself in the 
presence of Lord Galonfield. My stepfather bade me re¬ 
move my veil, and, for the first time since I was ten years 
old, my face was revealed to a man who was not a member 
of my stepfather’s household. 

Scarcely had I acknowledged my introduction to Lord 
Galonfield when I became conscious of the fact that a 
strange person had followed me into the room. This 
person was clad in a black gown and yashmak, but whose 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 179 


face it was that was concealed by the yashmak I did not 
attempt to guess. 

Believing that in Lord Galonfield I beheld the man who 
was to become my husband, I studied him critically. His 
marked admiration for me, his gentle manner and ap¬ 
parent manliness were not without effect. He pleased 
me, and I told myself that I would be content to be his 
wife. 

When Lord Galonfield left the house, I asked my step¬ 
father whether or not my surmise was correct. He 
answered, coldly, that nothing had been decided, but that 
it was more than probable that Lord Galonfield would ask 
for my hand. 

I then sought information concerning the black- 
garmented woman I had seen. 

“It is a lady in whom I have the most implicit con¬ 
fidence,” Meschid replied. “In no circumstances are you 
to see Lord Galonfield except in her presence. If he asks 
you who she is, you may tell him that she is Ayesha, a 
Moslem woman to whose charge you have been confided 
during your residence in England. Discourage all further 
questioning on the subject, and abstain from it yourself.” 

Lord Galonfield’s visits now became frequent, and, 
when he called, my stepfather arranged matters so that his 
lordship, the mysterious Ayesha and I were left together 
for an hour. It was only at these times that I saw Ayesha 
at all. 

Each visit found Lord Galonfield’s regard for me in¬ 
creasing, and at length he threw aside all restraint and, 
telling me that he loved me, he asked me to be his wife. 
I inquired whether he had obtained the consent of my 
stepfather. He replied that he had not, but would try to 
do so. Again he asked me if I loved him, but, just as I 
was in the act of confessing that I did, my stepfather 


180 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


entered the room. Meschid, to my great surprise, bitterly 
rebuked his lordship for thus declaring his sentiments to 
me, then he ordered me to return to the harem. I was on 
my way thither when the idea occurred to me to address 
the strange woman who had attended me. Turning sud¬ 
denly to do this, I saw that my companion, believing that 
I was on the point of entering the apartments of the 
harem, had removed the yashmak. The face that was 
revealed by this action was one of the most extraordinary 
I had ever seen—a face with long, masculine features— 
the face of a man about fifty years of age, and who, 
wearing a dark, trailing gown, at once reminded me of 
descriptions I had read of old astrologers. 

This singular person did not perceive that I had seen 
him, and, almost terrified by my discovery, and fearful 
of the consequences of the act, I hurried into the harem 
and closed the door. 

Having a premonition that, late as it was, my step¬ 
father might desire to see me after Lord Galonfield left, 
I made no preparations to retire for the night. I was not 
mistaken. Twenty minutes later Meschid entered the 
harem. 

My stepfather appeared to be greatly agitated. After 
severely reproaching me because I had permitted Lord 
Galonfield to place an arm around me while he was declar¬ 
ing his love, he told me that if I had been so unfortunate 
as to let the young Englishman find a place in my heart I 
must banish all thoughts of him from my mind at once. 

“I had thought that he would have found your charms 
sufficient dowry,” he added, bitterly. “But the heathen 
dog would have me rob my own children by yielding to 
him with you one-half of my estate.” 

My heart grew cold, and a sense of desolation entered 
it. Then, suddenly, a wild rush of anger and indignation 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 181 


choked me. It was not I, but the dowry he sought, that 
had appeared so beautiful to his eyes. 

“Are all men so base as that?’’ I gasped, as my wounded 
pride fluttered in my bosom like a frightened, half-stifled 
dove in a smoke-filled cage. 

“No,’’ said Meschid, thoughtfully, “but young men are 
much the same. An older man makes a more affectionate 
and indulgent husband. But let us have no more of Eng¬ 
land. You have seen how gray and fog-bound it is, and 
what we have to expect of its people. Shall we return to 
Constantinople to-morrow, and forget that we ever have 
known this grasping man they call a lord?” 

“Yes—yes,” I murmured, eagerly. 

And the next morning we set forth for the distant 
Orient. 

Tortured as I was by outraged love and the bitter pangs 
of a proud woman’s humiliation, the journey homeward 
seemed like one long nightmare. Arriving in Constan¬ 
tinople, I found no one in the house of Meschid Pasha to 
bid me welcome. My sisters regarded me coldly or with 
sneers. The man to whom I had been offered as a wife 
had seen and rejected me. 

During the month that followed my return, I saw little 
of my stepfather. Most of this time, a prey to bitter 
reflections, I remained in my room, reading or engaged 
in needlework. 

One day there came a knock on my door, and Meschid 
entered. 

“Here is something that may interest you,” he said, 
carelessly, and, as he spoke, he handed me a French news¬ 
paper. Around a paragraph which consisted of five or 
six lines a pencilled circle had been drawn. 

I saw that the article was an announcement of the death 
of Prince Giuseppe Maranotti—my father. 


182 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


If Meschid had expected to read in my face any sign of 
sorrow or satisfaction, he was disappointed. I thanked 
him coldly, and laid the paper aside. The announcement 
scarcely had interested me. 

On the following day Meschid visited me again. This 
time, to my utter amazement, he bade me put on my veil 
and accompany him to his selamlik—an apartment in 
which Turkish men receive their male friends, and which 
no female member of the family is supposed to enter. 

Upon entering the selamlik, I perceived the figure of a 
man standing beside one of the windows. As the visitor 
turned toward me and I saw his face, I started and an 
exclamation of alarm escaped me. 

The man before me was the one who, in the guise of a 
Turkish woman, had been present at my interviews with 
Lord Galonfield! 

In a low, brusque voice, my stepfather bade me remove 
my veil. With trembling fingers I did so. 

“Pauline,” said Meschid, “this is Mr. Glyncamp, an 
American, who has honored us by asking for your hand.” 

With a little cry of pain, I shrank from the burning 
eyes and outstretched hand of the long, grim-featured 
man who now approached me. 

“No—no—oh, God, no!” I exclaimed. “Do not tell 
me that! I cannot—I-” 

My stepfather laughed mirthlessly, and then said: 

“It is a little sudden, you must admit, Mr. Glyncamp. 
Even Galonfield disappointed her, for all her dreams of 
a husband have had a fairy prince for their subject. But, 
Pauline, my dear, you dreamt better than you knew. 
Your future husband has powers which are commonly 
attributed only to fairies. He will make you happy and, 
taking you without a dowry, he will give to you a home to 



THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 183 


which you will have a better claim than that which you 
now have on mine.” 

I was now trembling so violently that, I think, I should 
have fallen, had not my stepfather’s next words assured 
me that I should have a respite, at least, from the terrible 
fate that thus confronted me. 

“Mr. Glyncamp is going on a long journey to the East, 
and he will not wed you until his return,” Meschid went 
on. “It was such a journey that I made when your mother 
rejected my suit. When I returned, your mother was 
more favorably disposed. May it be so with you.” 

I bowed to Glyncamp, and, summoning all my fortitude, 
I weakly thanked him for the honor he had done me. He 
smiled as he told me that, having seen me, the memory of 
my face would be ever with him on his travels and that, 
therefore, I would find him looking younger on his return. 

Hurrying back to the harem, I entered my room, locked 
the door and flung myself down on an ottoman. Convinced 
that life held nothing more for me now that was worth 
the having, I abandoned myself to despair, and thought 
of suicide. Then, suddenly, a new idea entered my mind. 

I would flee from Meschid as my mother had fled from 
my father. 

But to whom should I turn for aid? My mother’s father 
and brother were dead, and I knew nothing of her other 
relatives. Then my thoughts turned to the Maranottis— 
to Victor, now the head of the house. Was he like his 
father? Did he, too, share the belief that my mother’s 
flight had been due to another cause than the cruelty of 
her husband? Perhaps family pride would impel him to 
come to my relief. I would send for him. 

With the marks of my tears still upon my face, I seated 
myself at my writing desk and wrote to the young Prince 
a long letter in which I told him all that I had suffered 


184 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


since the death of my mother. When I finished writing, 
I read the letter over carefully, then thrust it into an 
envelope and addressed it to him at his country seat at 
Basselanto. 

Four miserable, heart-breaking, nerve-racking weeks 
passed, and, as I failed to get a reply to my pitiful appeal, 
I again resigned myself to despair. But, shortly after 
leaving the house one day to visit the cemetery in which 
my poor mother now slept amid the cypresses and flowers, 
I felt a hand fall on my shoulder. Turning quickly, I 
beheld a woman who wore a yashmak. 

“You are Pauline?” the stranger asked, in English. 

The accents were soft and gentle, but I hesitated. 

“You are Pauline Maranotti?” the woman asked again. 

“Yes, madame,” I answered, faintly. 

“Let us walk on,” the other said in a low, confidential 
voice. “I am from the Prince—your half-brother.” 

With a little cry that was almost a sob, I grasped her 
arm. 

“He is here—in Constantinople?” I asked eagerly. 

“No, he is not here,” the woman answered. “He was 
unable to come himself, so he sent me to take you to him. 
There is a carriage awaiting us in yonder street. Let us 
hasten to it. We can talk better there.” 

Once more fear gripped my heart. 

“How am I to know that you-” I began, but the 

veiled stranger interrupted me. 

“Come with me to the carriage,” she said quietly. “You 
shall be convinced before you confide yourself to my care.” 

When we were out of view of Meschid’s house I saw 
a closed carriage with two horses standing in the street 
that my guide had mentioned. At the step of the carriage 
my companion paused and took from her pocket a little 
leather case. She pressed a spring, and a cover, flying 



THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 185 


open, disclosed within a beautiful miniature surrounded 
by a lock of dark brown hair. It was an exquisite portrait 
of my mother, painted before my birth. I had heard her 
speak of this gift that she had given to the Prince on her 
wedding day, and I knew that the lock of hair was her 
own. 

With a little sob, I turned to my guide. 

“You may take me where you will,” I said. 

The woman who had come to my rescue was Mrs. 
Woodson, an American, who, with her artist husband, 
long had lived in Rome. She was a few years older than 
my mother, whom she had known prior to her marriage 
to Prince Maranotti. 

A few days after my flight from Constantinople, Prince 
Victor Maranotti welcomed me in Rome. I found my 
brother to be a singularly kindly and handsome young 
man, and the moment I looked upon his face, I knew that 
a merciful fate had led me at last to a natural protector. 

After listening to my story, the Prince informed me 
that, in the circumstances, it would be better for me to 
remain incognito in Rome until the following week, when 
it would be necessary for him to start for the United 
States where he had extensive business interests. 

“In America, for a time, at least, you will be safe from 
the persecutions of Meschid and his friend, Glyncamp, of 
whose strange performances I often have heard,” he said. 
“There are several reasons why it is better that you should 
not assume the title of Princess Pauline Maranotti now.” 

What the reasons were, he did not tell me, but I sus¬ 
pected that, despite his friendliness, his family pride pre¬ 
vented him from publicly acknowledging as his sister the 
daughter of a woman who, having deserted his father, 
became the inmate of a Turkish harem. 

Little did I think when I saw the shores of America 


186 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


rise from the western horizon that here awaited me a 
new and no less alarming series of misfortunes. I had 
been fleeing from persons and circumstances which 
threatened my undoing, but the objects of these fears 
were known to me. Now, however, I was about to be 
confronted by conditions which, though constantly 
threatening me, were involved in mysteries which no art 
of mine would enable me to fathom. 

A few hours before we sighted land, the Prince, seated 
beside me in a corner of the deck that we had to ourselves, 
gave to me a clearer idea concerning his plans for me than 
he had vouchsafed before. 

For many years my father had been heavily interested 
in the development of American mining properties, some 
of which had yielded him large profits. He had not made 
these investments in his own name, however, and his 
principal representative in these transactions was a man 
named Trevison, who now was well advanced in years, 
and childless. 

Assuring me that it was in my interest that I should 
not assume the name of Maranotti, the Prince suggested 
that, as Paula Trevison, I should be known as Mr. Trevi- 
son’s daughter. Then he added: 

“If you are believed to be the daughter of this old man, 
who is now pretty close to the grave, you will find your¬ 
self in a well-defined position, from which, by reason of 
your natural charms and your various accomplishments, 
you may steadily advance. Nearly all the large fortune 
which Trevison is handling over here, and which really is 
mine, is believed to belong to him. I will so arrange 
matters that, after his death, it will appear that you have 
inherited from him a sum sufficient to give you a comfort¬ 
able income. Meantime, whenever I visit the United 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 187 


States, I, assuming the name of Trevison, as I am doing 
now, may be recognized as your brother.” 

“You will be known by a false name over here, only in 
order that you may aid me?” I asked, suspiciously. 

The Prince laughed gaily. 

“Oh, no,” he said. “Even if I had not brought you 
with me I would have to be known as Trevison.” 

“I am afraid I do not understand,” I murmured, 
wonderingly. 

“Well, then, I will explain,” the Prince went on more 
gravely. “I am only doing what was done by my father, 
but in a slightly different way. On his visit to this coun¬ 
try he always represented himself as old Trevison’s 
brother. The reason for it was this: Poor as it is, Italy 
still retains much of its ancestral pride, and it has not 
been confronted with the spectacle of the head of a noble 
family engaging in commercial pursuits. Yet, for more 
than a quarter of a century, such pursuits have made the 
house of Maranotti one of the most influential in the 
kingdom. But the Maranotti who followed these pursuits 
has been known in America as a Trevison. In the United 
States his identity was unknown. In Italy, none of the 
nobles know the name of Trevison.” 

On the day of our arrival in New York, my brother 
and I, who were registered at our hotel as ‘Thomas Trevi¬ 
son and Paula Trevison,’ met the man who had a rightful 
claim to the surname. He was very old—almost eighty I 
should say—and his face had an almost unearthly pallor. 
In a shaking voice, he greeted my princely brother with a 
familiarity that startled me. 

“Well, Tom, the old man beat me out in our race for 
the grave,” he said. “But I reckon I’ll be spry enough to 
let out a few links that will make him think he’s standing 


188 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


still, after I catch up with him on the other side. Are 
you going West this trip?” 

Shocked by this old man’s gruesome jocularity, I was 
glad to escape from his presence. That evening, how¬ 
ever, we dined together in a fashionable restaurant where 
the irreverent patriarch seemed to be perfectly at ease. 
He was frequently addressed respectfully by men who 
passed our table, and to several of these he explained that 
I was his daughter. 

“She’s just back from Europe where she’s had a few 
foreigners completing her training,” he said. “Most peo¬ 
ple think Europe’s the best place to get female metal out 
of our Western ore, so Paula’s been passing through the 
mill over there. Doesn’t look as if it did her much harm, 
does it now?” 

My brother smiled as if he saw some humor in this 
sort of thing, but I, shocked almost beyond the power of 
expression by the roughness of it all, felt my face flush 
hotly as I heard the person addressed chuckle good- 
naturedly and mutter compliments which, while frank 
enough, perhaps, were devoid of delicacy. 

The following day my brother told me that, as he found 
it desirable to visit the West, where some of his mining 
properties were situated, he had arranged that I should 
spend a few weeks in the Adirondack Mountains, with a 
widowed niece of Trevison’s. He had been assured that 
it was a delightful retreat, and that its isolation was of a 
nature to commend it to us. 

Having determined on this course, our preparations 
soon were made for the journey. As we were passing 
along the station platform, between two waiting trains, a 
strange thing happened. The click of a car window, 
suddenly raised, attracted my attention and a man’s head 
and shoulders were thrust out. 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 189 


With a little exclamation of alarm, I drew back. The 
man’s face was the most grotesque I had ever seen. His 
eyes, turned suddenly to mine, held my gaze. In the very 
ugliness of this stranger there was something that 
fascinated me. 

“What is the matter?” asked my brother, who observed 
that I had stopped. 

Quickly recovering my presence of mind, I laughed 
nervously, and said: 

“It is nothing, but I never expected that I would see 
a live gargoyle. In those wonderful mountains to which 
you are taking me, I shall not be surprised to encounter 
peris and genii.” 

My brother, whose quick eyes had by this time dis¬ 
covered the face that had caused me such consternation, 
laughed lightly as he replied : 

“By Heaven, you are right! The man is a veritable 
gargoyle.” 

I heard the window close with a slam, but I did not 
look over my shoulder to assure myself that the strange 
creature was no longer there. All during that long journey 
to the mountains, that weird, unearthly face haunted me. 
I saw it staring at me from the shimmering waters of the 
Hudson. It took form among the giant boulders and 
wooden summits of the Catskills, and, at eve, I saw it 
lurking among the great cloud-curtains that folded in the 
sunset. 

Not until near the close of the second day of our 
journey did we arrive at our destination, and, ah, how 
may I describe the splendid spectacle that then revealed 
itself to my eyes? 

Alighting from a “buckboard,” one of the most torture- 
inflicting vehicles in which man ever traversed rough 


190 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


mountain roads, I found myself on the pebbled margin 
of a turquoise lake that was dotted everywhere with lily- 
pads, whose white and yellow flowers sifted into the virile, 
pine-odored air a perfume that was as fragrant. and 
langorous as the breath of love. 

Walled in by great mountain slopes, from the sides of 
which rose larches as lofty and majestic as cathedral 
spires, I felt as if I were standing in an enchanted valley. 
The mountainsides were thickly wooded, and here and 
there great seams of granite were visible through rifts in 
the deep, green foliage, so that the valley had the aspect 
of a crystal-bottomed basin wrought out of a single 
emerald that had been inlaid with silver tracery. Among 
the trees fluttered birds unlike any I had ever seen before, 
but their sweet, full-throated songs seemed to be no more 
than the pattering of raindrops on the surface of a sea of 
silence—a silence so weird and illimitable that, appalled, I 
felt as if I were standing in the vestibule of infinity. 

Dazed by the wild splendor of my environment, I felt 
as the Emperor of China might have done when from his 
window he for the first time beheld the splendid palace 
which genii hands had wrought for Aladdin in a single 
night. 

I was roused from my trance by the sounds of strange 
voices. Then I saw two strangers, clad in rough gar¬ 
ments of countrymen, approaching to take charge of the 
horses that had drawn our two buckboards through the 
mountains. 

As I looked around for the house which was to be my 
home for the next two weeks, I saw a large, squat struc¬ 
ture built of logs. In the door of this stood a portly 
woman, with gray hair. Despite the charms and reassur¬ 
ing isolation of this mountain retreat, a suspicion that this 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 191 


log-house was the dwelling to which I had been consigned 
filled me with alarm. I had been told that among these 
mountains deer, bears and other wild animals were numer¬ 
ous, and the general aspect of the building recalled pictures 
I had seen of assaults made by Indians on the houses of 
white settlers. Were there Indians here? 

The motherly face of the elderly woman, who was now 
approaching, partly reassured me, and I saw that the men 
who were busying themselves with the horses were honest- 
featured, sturdy and marvelously self-possessed. 

The woman—whose name I was informed was Mrs. 
Seaver—welcomed me with the dignity of a princess in 
the doorway of her castle. As she led me into the log- 
house, I gazed about me with the most lively sensation of 
pleased surprise. The place was as carefully kept as a 
palace hall, and in the charming rooms through which she 
led me I beheld all the luxuries of Western civilization— 
a piano, pictures, shelves of books, the heads of animals 
which I had seen only in picture form, comfortable chairs, 
soft rugs, cosy ‘dens’, and beds which I thought were the 
whitest and neatest in all the world. 

Clapping my hands with delight, I laughed as I had not 
done for many months. 

Fanned by balsam-breathing breezes, I slept that night 
as, I think, I never slept before. I had never thought that 
in all the world was to be found a place that was capable 
of inspiring such a sense of ineffable peace as this. 

The next day my brother left. But, however kindly I 
had come to regard him, I was not now conscious of a 
feeling of loss. The wilderness had taken me into its 
heart, and, thoroughly enamoured, I was happy there. 

Little by little I conquered the pleasurable fear with 
which the dark recesses of the wood-clad slopes had 


192 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


inspired me. In the course of the first three days an 
uncontrollable desire to see wild animals in their native 
haunts took possession of me. I learned to use the paddle 
of a canoe, and I acted like an overjoyed child when, by 
my efforts, I succeeded in sending the frail craft out over 
the shimmering surface of the lily-dotted lake. Turtles, 
chipmunks, sportive minnows and long-leaping water 
spiders filled me with delight, and how shall I describe 
the sensations that overwhelmed me when, as I looked out 
of my open window late one moonlight night, I saw three 
deer steal from out a leafy covert and move down to the 
waterside to drink? 

I had been in the Adirondacks a little more than a week, 
when a new and greater wonder presented itself to my 
view. Upon awakening, early one morning, I rose and 
stepped to my window, as was my custom, to steal a 
glimpse at the great tree-crowded amphitheatre and to 
inhale the fresh, balsam-laden air before dressing for 
breakfast. My lips were framing a prayer of heartfelt 
thankfulness that, here in the heart of this vast wilder¬ 
ness, I was so far from all I feared, when something that 
was pinned to one of the swaying white curtains of the 
window attracted and held my attention. As, with 
wondering eyes, I leaned toward it, I saw that it was a 
delicately tinted, square envelope on which were inscribed 
the words: “For Paula.” 

The only person who had thus addressed me since my 
arrival in America was the Prince, and though the hand¬ 
writing before me now was apparently that of a man, I 
was certain that my brother was not the writer. 

The envelope was unsealed, and, thrusting in my fingers 
I drew out a sheet of notepaper on which were written 
the following verses: 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


193 


TO PAULA 
Sleep, 

And the starlight shines, 

Like Faith, among the pines, 

To all revealing 
Thy trust in man and maid. 

And while from out the shade 
Of Earth are stealing 
Thy thoughts that dreamward go, 
I, keeping vigil, know 

Love’s bells are pealing. 

Wake, 

And the starlight dies, 

For then, athwart the skies, 

Thy glances, streaming, 

Do prove thou art the sun. 

Now that his vigil’s done 
And thou art beaming, 

Fond Hope doth close his eyes 
But, as in sleep he lies, 

Of thee he’s dreaming. 


Tingling with pleasure, I re-read the lines. These were 
the first verses I had ever read in the handwriting of their 
author, and a great wonder filled me as I asked myself 
whether, indeed, it was I who had inspired them. But 
this question quickly gave place to one of still greater 
import. 

Who had written them ? 

I now found myself thoroughly bewildered. Except 
the Prince and Mr. Trevison, there was no person in the 
United States with whom I had exchanged more than a 
few, perfunctory words prior to coming to the mountains, 
and in my new home Mrs. Seaver and the servants were 
the only persons who, so far as I had been able to learn, 
were within many miles of me. That the lines had been 
written by one of the rough-mannered and illiterate man- 
servants, was, of course, impossible. But what other man 


194 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


had been in the neighborhood? Who was it who had 
come to my window while I slept ? 

Once more the old fears took possession of me. Had I 

been followed from Europe by someone who-? But, 

no, this, too, was impossible. While there I had only two 
suitors—Lord Galonfield and Glyncamp. The first had 
sought me only for the wealth he believed me to possess, 
and the second had gone to Asia. Thus, except Meschid, 
Prince Maranotti and Trevison, all men were strangers 
to me. 

I was only a child of the harem, however, and in 
Moslem harems many superstitions that would be laughed 
to scorn in Western households are deeply rooted in all 
minds. And so, assured that there was no man about me 
who could have written these lines, I fell to speculating as 
to whether or not the verses had come to me through some 
supernatural agency. 

At breakfast I again inquired of Mrs. Seaver whether 
any of the neighboring valleys was inhabited. 

She shook her head gravely. 

“No,” she replied. “We are many miles from any 
other house. Even the sportsmen who come to the 
Adirondacks for deer and bear seldom penetrate so far as 
this. That is one reason why I like it so.” 

I resumed my breakfast, and for several minutes the 
silence that followed remained unbroken. Mrs. Seaver 
was the first to speak. 

“Perhaps, my dear, it is better that you should know 
something else,” she said, hesitatingly. “What I have 
told you is the truth, as I understand it. I know of no 
other habitation than ours, but there are times when 
rumors reach us that some strange persons occasionally 
are to be seen about Deadwood Lake—a body of water 
that lies in the valley immediately north of ours. Who 



THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 195 


they are we never have been able to learn. My men have 
seen these strangers on several occasions, but they never 
succeeded in getting close enough to them to describe them 
accurately. One undoubtedly is an aged Indian, while the 
second is a white youth, who, if the rumors are to be 
credited, is strangely handsome. These two are always 
together, but a third—a white man of patriarchal appear¬ 
ance, is sometimes observed. It is scarcely likely that you 
will see them, but, if you do, it is just as well, perhaps, 
to avoid them as much as possible.” 

My breath came quickly. So far from exciting my 
fears, this information stimulated my curiosity. Who 
was this mysterious young man whom my prosaic hostess 
had described as “strangely handsome”? If these three 
men were the only persons in our neighborhood who were 
unknown to me, one of them doubtless was the author of 
the verses I had received. Assuredly, the Indian had not 
written them, nor was it probable that the “man of patri¬ 
archal appearance” had done so. But the other—ay, it 
might have been this other. 

The stream which filled the lake I had come to love so 
well, entered our valley from the north. This fact indi¬ 
cated that the clear waters over which my canoe daily 
glided were the outflow of Deadwood Lake. Then, I 
remembered that one of the menservants had told me that 
our lake was merely one link of a beautiful crystal chain 
that extended well back into the mountains. 

When breakfast was done, I left the house and, singing 
as I went, I made my way to where my shining, green 
canoe was drawn up on the pebbled shore. One of the 
menservants, who was painting a fishing punt, smiled and 
nodded a “good-morning” as I drew near. 

“You are going out to-day, Miss?” he asked. 

I felt my cheeks flush slightly as I answered: 


196 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


“Yes, I am going to gather some lilies for my room.” 

The man rose, and, as he started toward my canoe to 
run it down the beach, he glanced toward the southwest, 
and hesitated. 

“I wouldn’t go out far or stay too long, Miss,” he said, 
thoughtfully. “The sky looks bad over yonder, and one 
who is down in the valley can’t see a bad blow coming till 
it’s on us. The weather’s been pretty respectful-like since 
you’ve been here, but there ain’t no other hell on earth 
that’s quite so bad as an Adirondack storm. Does the 
missis know you’re going?” 

“No,” I answered, coldly. “Mrs. Seaver has never 
required me to report to her anything which it pleases me 
to do or not to do.” 

The man shrugged his shoulders. 

“Well, I meant no harm,” he said, almost curtly. “But 
when thunder once begins to bellow up here, it’s mighty 
seldom a strong man can drive a boat inshore before he 
gets a soaking, and a soaking is the least of it. Small as 
this lake of ours is, it can kick up waves on shorter notice 
than the Atlantic can.” 

Realizing that I had unkindly slighted one whose 
only fault had been over-zealousness in manifesting a 
regard for my safety, I laughed reassuringly and said 
indulgently: 

“You are right, I know, so, though I see no storm 
clouds, I will not go too far from the shore.” 

And, as my canoe glided over the shimmering lake to 
where the lilies were, I was resolved to keep my word. 
But the dancing sunlight lured me on and on, and my 
promise, dying like the song of a bird, went to mingle 
with the lily-scented airs. 

The valley in which Mrs. Seaver’s log-house stood was 
about three miles long and two miles wide, and the lake 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 197 


covered three-fourths of its bottom. Well out in the lake 
were five or six tree-covered islets, and on one that lay 
furthest to the south I had discovered a little leafy nook 
to which I sometimes went with one of the volumes from 
Mrs. Seavers shelves. 

But it was not to the south that I turned this morning. 
At first I kept the head of my little craft toward the center 
of the lake, then, as my glance continued to stray curiously 
toward the north, I found, at last, that, half-unconsciously, 
I was moving in that direction. 

For the first time since my arrival in the Adirondacks, 
I was dominated by a desire to see the stream whose 
waters filled the clear lake in our valley. The sun was 
still shining brightly, when, suddenly determining to give 
rein to my curiosity, I brought the bow of the canoe 
directly to the northward, and, in response to the de¬ 
termined paddle-strokes, the little craft moved swiftly 
over the gleaming waters. 

As I approached an indentation in the northern shore 
I marveled that I never had been inspired with the desire 
to visit it before. Here the lily-pads seemed to form a 
great green, white and yellow rug, and the perfume of the 
blossoms so filled the air that it was no longer possible for 
me to identify the odor of the pines in the breezes which, 
rushing down the great mountain slopes, seemed to dally 
in love-rapt idleness among the langourous spirits of the 
flowers. 

I had been singing as I left the log-house, and I was 
singing now, but, as I kept glancing to right and left to 
find places in which to thrust my paddle without breaking 
lily leaves or blossoms, I was singing a song that had 
been sung by no human lips before. It was a song in 
which the words of the verses I had received that morn¬ 
ing had adapted themselves to an Arabian air that, in the 


198 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


harem of Meschid Pasha, had been one of the lullabies 
sung by my mother to each of her little ones. 

Thus singing and moving slowly through the lilies and 
their wide-spread leaves, I suddenly found myself at the 
very stream I had been seeking. At its mouth it was 
about a hundred feet in width, but, as I looked up along 
the course, I saw that it narrowed perceptibly. Laying 
my dripping paddle across the canoe, I stopped singing 
and listened. 

The very air seemed motionless. Within a distant 
leafy covert on the mountainside at my right a single 
woodlark was piping its clear, sad notes. All else was so 
still that the very perfume that filled the air was eloquent. 

For several moments a feeling of fear and awe stole 
over me, and I looked at the sky. There the blue hue 
had given place to a pinkish tint, but the sun still was 
shining and there was scarcely a ripple on the clear, 
gleaming waters over which I had passed. 

Should I go back, and return some other day to explore 
this unknown water-course ? Surely, I could find no 
fairer day than this. I would do it now. 

Owing to the fact that the beauties of the lake and 
dingles so often caused me to give no thought to the flight 
of the hours, it often had happened that the hour for 
luncheon found me far from the hospitable table in the 
log-house. Thus it had come to pass that, whenever I 
left the house in the morning for a stroll or a canoe 
trip, I took with me, in a little net-work bag, sandwiches, 
cake and fruit. Fortunately I had done so to-day. 

Glancing at my watch, I now saw that it was only a 
few minutes after ten, then, with a sigh of pleasurable 
anticipation, I again picked up my paddle and, more reck¬ 
less concerning the fate of leaves and blossoms than I 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 199 


had been before, I forced the canoe into the sluggish 
current of the mysterious stream. 

As I proceeded, my progress became less and less im¬ 
peded by sprawling lily-pads. I was now at the feet 
of two lofty mountains at the bases of which the stream 
pursued a winding course. 

At length, with a little sigh of excitement and pleasure, 
I saw that the splendors of a second valley were being 
unfolded to my view. 

But, ah, how different was this valley from the one 
I had just left behind me. The ruggedness of its lofty, 
bare granite precipices filled me with a half-defined sense 
of alarm. Over the bosom of this shining stream I 
seemed to have passed from one of Nature’s pleasure 
gardens to the vast portal of one of her towering, deserted 
and crumbling abbeys. A chillness seemed to enter the 
air. The arms of the giant pine trees appeared to be 
gently beckoning and nodding to the unseen spirits of the 
valley. 

But, though the valley’s lofty walls thus were revealed 
to my eyes, of the mysterious lake I saw nothing. Ahead 
of me was a great expanse of tall rushes through which 
the stream had cut its way. Around me, however, the 
waters seemed to have lost their lustre. Like the moun¬ 
tains whose images they reflected they appeared to be 
dark, sullen and forbidding. 

The speed of my canoe was gradually abating for, 
half-overcome by distrust, I was paddling mechanically. 

Darker and darker grew the waters, then a greater chill¬ 
ness smote me. I was about to raise my eyes toward 
the sky when I beheld something that riveted my atten¬ 
tion. 

Before me lay the waters of Deadwood Lake and, as 
I looked, I shrank back in affright. Trunks and roots 


200 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


of fallen trees that had been wrung from the mountain¬ 
sides by tempests or great avalanches were rotting on 
the narrow, gray pebbled shores. The waters were of a 
brownish black, and the hundreds of white-trunked birches 
that they reflected near their margin gave to them a 
weird, ghostly effect. 

I was not yet clear of the masses of high rushes that 
grew out of the water, and the channel between them 
was so narrow that I could touch each green wall with 
my paddle. Deciding to return at once to the other 
valley, I was about to reverse my position in the canoe, 
when I beheld something so startling that I almost dropped 
my paddle, and for several seconds I seemed to lose the 
power to breathe. 

What I saw was a canoe, fashioned out of the bark 
of birch trees, and, as I looked, it moved slowly across 
the thin screen of rushes that separated me from the 
clear surface of the lake. In this canoe were two human 
figures, but the appearance of each was so extraordinary 
that I suspected that they were indeed more than men. 

The face of the figure that sat in the stern of the canoe 
was of a brownish-red color and, despite its wrinkled fore¬ 
head and cheeks, there was something sphinx-like in its 
expression. The eyes seemed to be looking fixedly into 
a storied future that they might live to see embodied in 
the storied past. But the figure in the bow—ah how shall 
I describe what then appeared to me to be the head and 
body of a god? 

Though I have heard enthusiastic women describe 
certain men as “beautiful,” I never believed until that 
moment that such an adjective could be used appropriately 
to describe a man’s appearance. But here was a man, 
scarcely older than I, whose head and shoulders would 
have put to shame those of the far-famed Apollo Belvi- 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 201 


dere. His slightly curling black hair had the gloss which 
shines on the plumage of birds, and though his skin 
was bronzed by exposure to the weather, it had the rich, 
transparent coloring of youth. Never had I thought it 
possible that a human brow, nose or chin could be so 
exquisitely formed and, at the same time, be so expressive 
of intellectual and physical vigor. But it was the ex¬ 
pression of spiritual virility and omniscience that gave 
to the classic features a suggestion of divine perfection. 

“Is it god or man?” I whispered, and at that moment 
I seemed to have my answer from the skies. 

In the distance I heard a faint, rumbling sound, then, 
suddenly, a terrific crash of thunder directly above my 
head filled me with the most indescribable sensation of 
awe and fear. The mountains seemed to shiver with the 
sound and, glancing above me, I saw great towering 
clouds, like enormous, gray-wreathed icebergs drifting 
swiftly toward the north. Among these advancing mon¬ 
sters lightning was glowing sullenly, at first one point 
and then another, then there came a flash that almost 
blinded me, and as, with a low despairing cry, I hid 
my face in my hands, a second peal of thunder rocked the 
dreadful valley. 

Turning again toward where, only a few moments be¬ 
fore, I had seen the birchbark canoe, I saw it had dis¬ 
appeared. But through the screen of reeds I beheld a 
sight that was scarcely less terrifying than the lightning 
and the thunder. 

The waters of Deadwood lake had assumed an inky 
blackness, and were covered with great strings of froth 
that looked as if they had dropped from the mouth of a 
gigantic rabid hound. From over the mountain tops 
came a dull, quivering, humming sound that I knew was 
the voice of the advancing storm. 


202 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


Half choking with fear, I reversed my position in the 
canoe, then, seizing the paddle, I started back toward 
the lake from which, in an ill-omened hour, I, a helpless 
woman, had been tempted by curiosity. 

As my paddle strokes fell quickly and nervously to 
right and left, I prayed—to God, to Christ, to Allah, 
and to Mohammed, the Prophet of Allah. Then, with 
closed eyes and bowed head, I, paddling blindly, became 
once more a mere child of the harem, for I prayed to 
the two genii I had seen in the birchbark canoe. 

As a child had I not learned that the appearances of 
genii often were accompanied by peals of thunder and 
vivid flashes of lightning? Did not one of the stories 
of the Thousand and One Nights tell how the Sultan 
of the Genii assumed the form of a handsome young man 
when he appeared to Zeyn Alasnam, the young Sultan of 
Bussorah? And were not those appearances invariably 
attended by such displays as I had seen just now, while, 
terror-stricken, I sat in my canoe among the reeds of 
Deadwood Lake? 

Then, in a wild burst of self-reproach, I told myself 
that I was to blame for the very storm itself—that, by 
trespassing on these waters frequented by the genii, and 
stealing a view of two of them, I had invoked the wrath 
of Heaven. 

No drop of rain yet had fallen, but the wind was grow¬ 
ing stronger every moment. Around me the high reeds 
began to lower their heads as if they, too, were inspired 
by the fears which were overwhelming me. Like men 
struggling in the grip of engulfing quicksands, the reeds, 
tugging at their roots, seemed to be making desperate 
efforts to get to the shore, and, as they swayed and bent 
low, the little channel through which I had passed was 
completely hidden from my view. 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 203 


Half sobbing with fright, and bitterly repenting the 
folly that had led me there, I succeeded in getting the 
bow of the canoe turned toward the shore on my right 
—a low, narrow strip of beach and shingle that lay at 
the foot of a lofty precipice. This strip I saw over the 
now low-lying reeds. It was only thirty feet away, but 
the craven reeds, huddling closer together as they sank 
lower and lower to the surface of the water, threatened 
to hold my canoe like a fish in a net. 

At length, however, my desperate efforts were re¬ 
warded. I felt the bow of the canoe grate on the stones 
of the beach. Rising from my seat, I reeled forward 
and, laughing hysterically, I leaped ashore just as a daz¬ 
zling flash of lightning illumined the valley, which was 
almost as dark as the last five minutes of twilight. I was 
raising my trembling hands to my eyes to shut out the 
glare when a nerve-racking clap of thunder drove me 
almost to the verge of madness. 

Half blinded by the lightning and deafened by the 
thunder, I plunged into a cluster of young pines, hoping 
to find shelter there from the rain which I now knew to 
be imminent. The lightning was beginning to crackle 
and hiss in a manner which showed it was dangerously 
near, when, having suddenly found myself at the inner 
edge of the cluster of evergreens, I stood at the very 
base of the precipitous mountain wall. Then, as I looked, 
I saw something that steadied me, and, despite my agita¬ 
tion, filled me with wonder. 

Set in the very face of the cliff was the wall of a log- 
house—about twenty feet wide and twelve feet high. In 
this wall were two glass-paned windows and a door. 

Running quickly to the door, I knocked. As I waited 
for an answer, something smote one of my hands. I 
perceived it was a large drop of water, then other drops 


204 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


began to fall around me, and there came another gleaming 
lightning flash. 

The crashing, rolling thunder made it seem impossible 
that any one who might have been in the shelter of the 
log wall should hear my continued knocking, so. without 
further hesitation, I laid a hand on the knob of the door. 
The knob turned, and, with a cry in which terror and 
relief were blended, I ran inside. 

The light that entered the dust-covered panes was so 
feeble that it was only when the lightning was playing 
that I was able to see the whole interior of the apartment 
I had entered so unceremoniously. This I perceived to 
be nothing more nor less than a small natural cave to 
which the hand of man had given a front of logs. Broad 
at its mouth, the cave tapered back like the end of a 
canoe, the roof and side walls coming to a point a few 
feet above the bare ground in the rear. At this point 
a curious bunk had been roughly hewn out of the mas¬ 
sive gray granite and on this bunk lay a soiled mattress 
and a dilapidated oil-skin coat. Near one of the windows 
stood a table, the under part of which was rounded and 
still holding some of the bark of the tree from which 
it had been taken. Near the table stood two old chairs 
and a campstool. Against one of the walls leaned an 
easel which supported a canvas on which an artist had 
begun to paint a view of Deadwood Lake from almost the 
very point from which I first had seen it. 

The cave was about twenty-five feet in length, and its 
rough aspect, as revealed by lightning flashes, was not 
altogether of a nature to reassure me. Still, it afforded 
shelter from the torrential rainpour that was now thun¬ 
dering down in the valley. 

Convinced that I was alone in the cave, I wiped away 
some of the dust that darkened one of the window-panes. 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 205 


As I looked out I saw what appeared to be a vast wall 
of water under the weight of which the very earth seemed 
to tremble. 

And now the crashes of thunder became less violent, 
the lightning flashes less keen, and, despite the enormous 
volume of falling water, the atmosphere assumed a 
brighter hue. 

At length the rainfall began to abate. I could distin¬ 
guish the outlines of the pines through which I had fled 
to this place of refuge. I scraped from other panes 
some of the grime with which they were encrusted, and 
once more surveyed the apartment. 

It now became apparent that this cave once had afforded 
shelter to a painter. Besides the easel and the campstool, 
I saw several maulsticks, palettes, paint tubes and torn 
canvases lying around the place. 

As I have said, the canvas on the easel revealed a view 
of Deadwood Valley. The picture was scarcely more 
than one-fifth done, but the instruction that I had re¬ 
ceived in drawing and painting was sufficient to enable 
me to recognize the work of a master. Satisfied of this, 
and thinking to find another example of his work, I turned 
to a piece of canvas that lay on the ground. Like every¬ 
thing else in the place, it was covered with grime, but, 
as I turned it over, a little cry of astonishment escaped 
me. The partly obliterated face which was painted upon 
it was that of the white man, or genie, I had seen in the 
birchbark canoe! 

I had scarcely more than recognized the features, how¬ 
ever, when an object moving on the floor about two paces 
from where I stood caused me to shrink back in affright. 
It was a dusty brown thing, and looked at first like a 
piece of stout rope. But no rope moves of its own 
volition, and one end of this strange object slowly rose, 


206 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


then, with a sudden jerk, the thing assumed the form of 
a coil. A triangular head moved back, and two beadlike 
eyes regarded me fixedly, while a broad, dark thread 
darted in and out of a closed, hideous mouth. 

I was confronted by a serpent—a serpent which, by 
the description I had heard of it, I knew to be a copper¬ 
head ! 

For several moments horror held me spellbound, then a 
feeling of creepiness stole up my back and settled among 
the roots of my hair. Breathing heavily, I retreated 
slowly, rapidly gathering courage as I saw that the reptile 
made no move to follow me. 

Glancing quickly around me, my gaze fell on an iron 
frying-pan that stood on a wooden stool. Taking hold 
of the long handle of this, I moved slowly forward to¬ 
ward the dark coil which, except for the nervously darting 
tongue, still was motionless. When I was three or four 
paces away from this, I hurled the pan at it and darted 
backward. 

The pan fell upon the coil, and a moment later the 
reptile, with its tail beating the air, lay writhing on the 
floor. All fear left me now, and, seizing the stool from 
which I had taken the pan, I ran forward and hammered 
the triangular head until it lay flattened at my feet. Then, 
panting as a result of my exertions, I looked around me 
apprehensively. Might there not be other serpents lurk¬ 
ing here? 

And now a rich, mellow light began to filter into the 
gloomy rock-chamber, through the dusty window panes. 
Hurrying to the door, I flung it open. The terrible 
storm, as if by enchantment, had changed into a gleaming 
sunshower, and the air was charged with the fragrant 
odors of the moistened wilderness. Then, once more, my 
superstitious fancies took possession of me. The death 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 207 


of the serpent had changed all, and once more I stood at 
one of the portals of Eden. 

The shower, too, soon passed, and as, leaving the 
gloomy cave behind me, I stepped out into the warm sun¬ 
shine a great feeling of thankfulness entered my heart. 
Looking at the watch that was fastened to my waist, I 
saw that it was half past twelve. 

But, as I glanced toward the reeds from which I had so 
narrowly escaped, a new fear fell upon me. Their mat¬ 
tered masses were now almost covered by the swollen 
flood which the mountain streams were momentarily re¬ 
enforcing. Somewhere in that vast tangle of muddy 
green sticks and leaves was my canoe. How was I to 
make my way afoot over the soggy ground and flooded 
banks to Mrs. Seaver’s log-house? 

I saw that for a woman to make such a journey with¬ 
out boat or guide was impossible. But, after all, my 
position was not altogether so unfortunate as it seemed at 
first. There was little doubt in my mind that, as soon 
as the lake grew more calm, Mrs. Seaver would send her 
manservants to seek me. Her log-house commanded a 
full view of the lake, and it was quite unlikely that the 
movement of my canoe toward the north shore had been 
unobserved. The men would look for me here. 

Finding consolation in these reflections, I now decided 
to walk as far as possible in the direction of the lake in 
the lower valley, hoping that I might succeed in getting 
to some point from which I might be able to signal to 
those who came to seek me. 

But, alas, I soon found that at a short distance below 
the cave the swollen waters had risen to the very base 
of the precipice. I returned, therefore, to the shelter 
afforded by the pines, for, despite the fall of the tern- 


208 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


perature that had accompanied the terrible storm, the sun 
now was blazing fiercely. 

Hour after hour I waited in the shadow of the pines, 
but no human voice came to my ears. Then I began to 
fancy that, owing to the matted condition of the reeds, 
the passage of a boat up the stream that connected the 
two lakes would be impracticable. 

At length twilight fell, and, while I watched and prayed, 
its shadows deepened into night, and the sky was flecked 
with the stars; then, over one of the dark mountains, 
the full moon flooded the valley with its light. 

A new thought came to me. Several times during the 
afternoon I found myself repeating, or singing to the 
air of that old Moslem lullaby, the words of the verses 
I had found pinned to my window curtain in the morning. 
In one of these verses the writer had written: 

“And while from out the shade 
Of Earth are stealing 
Thy thoughts that dreamward go, 

I, keeping, vigil, know 
Love’s bells are pealing.” 

Were these words no more than the mere expression 
of a poet’s fancy, or did they reveal a truth? If the 
writer had kept vigil near the windows of my room in 
which I lay unthreatened by danger, was it not possible 
that he might be near me now in this hour of my distress? 
Whether he might be man or genie, I would put his 
fidelity to the proof. 

Then, rising from my seat among the pines, I walked 
down to the margin of the swollen stream, and, after 
murmuring a prayer that, lurking somewhere in this 
mighty, moonlighted wilderness, my unknown lover would 
hear my voice and come to me, I sang his words to the 
sweet music of the old Turkish lullaby. 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 209 


Never before had I been afforded an opportunity to 
test the full power of my voice, and, as I heard it rising 
among the lofty crags, I half forgot the object of my 
effort. A spirit of exaltation seemed to seize my very 
soul and lift it up so far above the mountain heights that 
I felt as if I was singing where only angel-voices had 
been heard before. 

At length I came to the close of the last verse: 

“Now that this vigil’s done, 

And thou art beaming, 

Fond Hope doth close his eyes, 

But, as in sleep he lies, 

Of thee he’s dreaming.” 

As the last note left my lips, I stood and listened. 
Then I started. 

Was it an echo that had repeated “dreaming,” or was 
it a human voice which, far, far among the dark shadows 
of the great wilderness, had called “Pauline”? 

While, trembling with anxious expectancy, I continued 
listening, hoping that I might hear the sound again, my 
gaze wandered nervously to my left whence had come 
a sound like the snapping of a dry stick. Then my heart 
seemed to leap to my throat, and, gasping with fear and 
astonishment, I beheld him whose presence I had evoked— 
the white man I had seen in the canoe—the genie to 
whom, when under the influence of childish superstitions, 
some of my incoherent prayers had been addressed. 

Half in the shadow of one of the pines, the strange, 
beautiful face of the young man was turned to mine, but 
on that face there was an expression of wonder that I 
could not understand. 

Twice or thrice I tried to speak, but the words would 
not leave my lips. Why did this stranger remain stand- 


210 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


ing thus, regarding me with such a steady, searching and 
unfathomable gaze? Did he not see the plight to which 
the storm had brought me? Why did he wait for me 
to speak? 

At length the stranger advanced slowly toward me. 
His lips moved, but before the words they framed were 
spoken, the old Indian darted suddenly from a shadow 
and seized him by the arm. The white man turned im¬ 
patiently. 

“Your hand is on me, Glenagassett,” he said. 

Though he spoke quietly, there was an unmistakable 
note of imperious rebuke in the clear, musical voice, and 
the hand of the Indian fell. 

“Is this a woman?” the young man asked, turning to 
the Indian, who, standing beside him, was bending on 
me a gaze that seemed to flash anger and defiance. 

“Yes,” replied the Indian, gravely. 

The white man turned again to me. 

“What brought you here?” he asked, almost roughly. 

“I came this morning in my canoe, but, in the storm, 
it was lost somewhere in that mass of reeds.” 

“Why do you not get it out?” he demanded, shortly. 
“Go—get it now.” 

I looked at him in wonder. Was I talking with a 
madman ? 

As I hesitated, he shrugged his shoulders. 

“Ah, yes, I remember now,” he said. “You women 
are too weak to do such things. Glenagassett, bring out 
the canoe.” 

The Indian hesitated, then, with stooping shoulders, 
he turned and moved quickly to the waterside. 

The white man, reaching out one of his hands, firmly 
grasped my arm and turned me so that the moonlight 
shone upon my face. 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 211 


“And so you are one of those creatures which men kiss 
and love, and for which they sell their foolish souls,” he 
said. “I have read about you, but I never saw you. 
You talk with the voice of man, but your brain is that of 
the devil. I have never been told, however, that women 
sing like the angels. And so I see Nathan has again 
deceived me.” 

Suddenly realizing that I was in the clutches of a 
victim of insanity, I began trembling violently. 

“You will sing again?” he asked. 

“Not now,” I faltered. 

“But I bid you,” he said, sharply. 

“I cannot sing,” I answered. 

“Even now I watched and heard you,” he retorted 
angrily. “In this valley I am lord. I am Rayon De- 
main. You will sing.” 

I saw that I must humor him, and, nodding humbly, 
I drew back. He watched me curiously as, raising my 
head, I sang, as earnestly as I had sung the other air, 
Arthur Sullivan’s beautiful “Lost Chord.” 

Not once while I was singing did I look upon the man 
who had so excited my fears. When the song was done, 
however, I turned to him. 

He was standing as if he had been turned to stone, 
and the look of wonder on his face was deeper. For 
several moments he was silent, then, passing a hand 
across his eyes, he murmured: 

“If all devils are like you, it is small wonder that men 
confuse them with the angels and give their souls into 
their keeping.” 

A sound from the waterside caused me to glance 
quickly in that direction. Something was moving in the 
reeds, and, as I looked, I fancied I saw an enormous bird 
swimming to the shore. One end rose, like a great head 


212 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


and neck, and then I saw that the Indian, having waded 
out among the reeds, had found my canoe and was bring¬ 
ing it to the bank. 

My heart leaped within me, for I felt that the hour 
of my deliverance was at hand. 

“You will send me home—to the log-house in the 
valley below?” I asked eagerly, turning to the man who 
called himself Rayon Demain. 

He, looking at me earnestly, was about to reply when 
the tall figure of a man, with flowing white hair and 
beard, strode quickly from the shade of the evergreens. 

“Rayon!” exclaimed the newcomer, sharply. 

The young man turned quickly to the speaker. 

“You have lied to me again,” he said, angrily. “The 
valley in which you have kept me is so narrow and 
high walled that Truth, like the sun, finds me only at 
noonday. I will go to where it rises and it sets, and 
will see and know all that lies between. In the books 
that you have given to me are songs that poets have 
sung to love, but I have known no love and, therefore, 
know not how to sing. And yet—to-night—I’ve 
heard-” 

He stopped, and once more I saw him pass a hand 
over his eyes in that same bewildered manner I had ob¬ 
served before. Then, with his gaze resting on the 
ground, he went on, half-abstractedly: 

“To-night I heard a voice that seemed, at first, to come 
to me from Heaven, but, as I listened, I knew that it 
was rising from the earth, and, following the sound, I 
came here thinking to find an angel singing. But the 
song was a song of love, and Glenagassett told me that 
the singer, so far from being an angel, was only one of 
those creatures which, as you have taught me, are two- 
thirds devil and one-third man, without a single attribute 



THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 213 


of divinity. And now I know that the harp of life which 
you have suffered me to play all these years is nothing 
more than a mere child’s toy, after all—that from it 
many chords are missing, and that the chord it most sadly 
lacks is that lost one of which this strange creature sang 
to-night—the chord of earthly love.” 

“Come!” commanded the graybeard in a hoarse, broken 
voice. “You have much to learn, and of this knowledge 
that which has to do with devil-snares is not the least. 
Come, like Adam in the garden, you have been subjected 
to the greatest temptation that can befall mankind—fruit 
of the forbidden tree that is offered to you by one of the 
daughters of that Eve whose angel beauty and diabolical 
mind brought shame and sorrow to thousands of genera¬ 
tions of men.” 

Trembling with shame and horror as the graybeard, 
pointing one of his long fingers at me, branded me as 
one of the most despicable of God’s creatures, I shrank 
from the strange, searching gaze that young Rayon fixed 
on me while his mentor spoke. 

My falling gaze decided all. In it the young man 
seemed to read a confession of my unworthiness. When 
I raised my eyes again, Rayon and the graybeard were 
gone, but in the place where they had been standing I 
saw the Indian, Glenagassett, who held my canoe paddle 
toward me. 

“Go,” the red man said, and, as he spoke, he pointed 
imperiously toward where the bow of my canoe was 
drawn up on the shore. 

With trembling fingers, I grasped the paddle the Indian 
was holding out to me. The redskin, turning from me 
abruptly, strode quickly toward the cluster of evergreens 
and disappeared from my view. 

From the great wilderness around me there came no 


214 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


sound. Deserted by him to whom my song had been 
addressed, I stood alone in the shadow of the great, dark 
precipice. 

The story of the fall of man constitutes part of the 
Mohammedan story of the creation of the world, and I 
have often thought that in the Koran it is more beauti¬ 
fully told than in the Bible, but this was the first time in 
my life that I had been brought to know that living 
men believed that women of their own period were cursed 
with the frailities of the Eve from whom they are 
descended. Then it seemed to me that the moonlight 
lost its splendor, and each star became a stern, accusing 
eye, while the night-winds, sighing softly in the pines, 
seemed to be pitying me because, in my ignorance, I had 
not known that when men come alone to this great wilder¬ 
ness they find earthly Edens, but when woman enters 
them their glories begin to fade. Then the forest trees 
are hewn into boards for summer hotels and bungalows, 
and the sounds of raucous dance-music and the inane 
songs of music halls still forever the great hymns which 
Nature is ever singing in her summer solitudes. The 
lake yields its lilies to women’s idle whims, and the lily 
plants, sooner or later, die like bereaved mothers. The 
gay-plumed singers of the forest no more voice the carols 
of the Spring, for the daughters of Eve, not content with 
their own charms, must enhance them with hats on 
which the feathered choristers are crucified like Him 
whose death agonies inspire with sorrow those wearers of 
stolen plumage when they assemble in Christian churches 
on Easter morning. 

And so, beautiful as I might be, I was only a woman, 
after all—a prettily-tinted reptile that was an enemy to 
the flowers and birds—or a flame at which things that 
loved light and life would find destruction! 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 215 


With a little sigh I had just started to walk down to 
my canoe when, once more, a sound coming from the 
evergreens attracted my attention. 

It was the sound of a tenor voice that was softly sing¬ 
ing the verses I had found in my window, and the air 
was that to which I had put them—the air of the old 
Turkish lullaby. 

I started, and, fearing to meet again this strange, 
young man whom the graybeard had induced to leave 
me, I took a couple of steps in the direction of my canoe. 

“Paula!” 

The word was so softly spoken that I half believed 
I had been deluded by my fancy. 

“Paula!” 

I turned again to the evergreens, but no human figure 
met my view. 

“Well?” I asked, abruptly. 

“Go to the canoe and take the forward seat, leaving 
the paddle behind you,” said the voice. “If you do not 
look behind you, you will be home in an hour. If, how¬ 
ever, you turn to see your boatman, evil will result to you 
and him. Will you promise?” 

I hesitated. 

“Yes,” I said. 

That I was in an enchanted valley I did not now pretend 
to doubt. The magnificence of this stupendous wilder¬ 
ness, the flashing of that terrible lightning, the awe-inspir¬ 
ing thunderpeals, the rush of those mighty winds, the 
sullen rumble of the falling flood, my encounter with the 
serpent and my extraordinary adventure with the three 
men united to put to flight all the materialistic impressions 
that European civilization had made upon my mind during 
the few weeks I had been under its influence. Once more I 
was a child of the Orient, as the heroines of the Thousand 


216 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


and One Nights had been. I, Princess Pauline Mara- 
notti, was being confronted by a situation that w r as no 
more wonderful than those which confronted other prin¬ 
cesses—Badoura, the Princess of China, who became the 
wife of Camaralzaman; Perie-Zadeh, Princess of Persia, 
whose brothers were transformed into black stones; and 
Nouronnihar, Princess of India, whose beauty had caused 
her three royal cousins to have extraordinary adventures. 

Thus resigning myself to the superstitions of the people 
among whom nearly all my life had been spent, I be¬ 
lieved that it was the voice of a genie that had come 
to me from among the evergreens, and that it was the 
genie that was to be my boatman on my journey home. 
But so great was the confidence with which the kindly 
voice had inspired me that I no longer feared to do its 
bidding, and, as I walked down to the waiting canoe, I 
resolved to guard against any incautious movement that 
would cause me to see the forbidden face. 

I entered the canoe resolutely, and, in obedience to the 
instructions I had received, I sat down on the forward 
seat. 

I had not long to wait. The crunching of the gravel 
and the snapping of dead reed-sticks soon apprised me 
of the mysterious boatman’s approach. A few moments 
later the canoe began to move forward, then it tilted 
violently from side to side as the boatman entered it. 

As the little craft moved on I saw that a way had 
been cleared for it to the channel of the stream. A more 
materialistic mind would have suspected that this had been 
done by the Indian who had brought it to the shore, but, 
versed in Eastern lore, I knew that the magic of my 
genie boatman was accomplishing all that. 

Having arrived at last at the channel, the bow of the 
canoe was quickly swung around and, with a speed which, 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 217 


in other circumstances, I would have thought incredible, 
the little craft, gliding over the swollen current, moved 
in the direction of the lower lake. 

My trip up this stream had occupied nearly twenty-five 
minutes, for I had been paddling leisurely against a slug¬ 
gish current, but now less than ten minutes sufficed to 
bring me to its mouth and the bright, moonlit waters of 
the lake below. 

Thus far the only sounds that gave evidence of the 
presence of my boatman were the strong, even strokes of 
his double-bladed paddle. 

A faint “hello” now sounded from the north-eastern 
shore of the lake. I was about to glance over my shoulder 
when my boatman said abruptly: 

“Have a care! Remember the warning!” 

A cold chill passed over me, as I replied, contritely: 

“Someone is calling. Perhaps Mrs. Seaver’s servants 
are seeking me.” 

“They have sought you all the afternoon, but the lake 
has been very rough, and one of their boats was capsized.” 

In my anxiety I half turned again. 

“But those in it got ashore?” I asked. 

“Oh, yes.” 

“Will you let those who are seeking me know that I 
am safe?” I asked. 

The unseen boatman hesitated. 

“No,” he answered, quietly, “It is too soon to tell them 
now.” 

For several moments we were silent. 

“Why did you go to Deadwood Lake?” my boatman 
asked. 

My cheeks began to burn, but something in me told me 
it was best to tell the truth. 

“I thought I might see the man who was described 


218 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


as so ‘strangely handsome,” I replied. “If I had known 
that there were genii there, I would not have gone, of 
course.” 

“If who were there?” asked the boatman. 

“Genii.” 

There was a pause. 

“Ah, you believe in the genii, then?” he said, in a lower 
voice. 

“Having seen them, can I believe anything else?” I 
murmured. 

“You are from the East—the Orient?” 

“From Constantinople,” I answered, wonderingly. “Do 
you not know?” 

“I know a little, but you must tell me more.” 

From across the widening waters came the voices of 
men who called my name. To these my boatman gave 
no heed. 

“Tell me why you left Constantinople—why you are 
here,” he persisted. 

Then, as briefly as I could, I told him all. 

I told him why I had fled from Meschid to Prince 
Maranotti and how I was brought to America and rep¬ 
resented as being Trevison’s daughter. I told him how 
I had received the verses in the morning and how I had 
suspected that the young white man in the neighboring 
valley was their author. 

When I was done, another silence fell. Then the boat¬ 
man spoke. 

“You will find other verses—verses and letters at your 
window,” he said, quietly. “You may trust the writer, 
but do not trust others, for I fear that great danger 
soon will threaten you. You did wrong to go to the 
upper lake to-day, but it is fortunate that you sang, for 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 219 


the first song of yours brought me to your side. But 
you must go there no more.” 

“You do not speak now as you did when I first met 
you,” I said, reprovingly. “You spoke then as if you 
had been taught to hate all women.” 

There was a long pause before he answered me. 

“Unlike the others whom you saw, I am not a genie,” 
he replied. “I am a man who is held under enchant¬ 
ment. When this is broken I may take my place with 
other men. Until then-” 

“Until then?” I murmured. 

“Until then I must continue to suffer.” 

“And how may this enchantment be broken?” I asked. 

“By marriage.” 

“By marriage!” I exclaimed, wonderingly. “With 
whom ?” 

“With you,” he murmured, softly. 

I started, and once more I was about to turn my head 
when the strange companion cautioned me. 

“You must not see me,” he said. 

Again the cries of the men who had been seeking me 
came to me from across the water. The voices were 
more distinct now, and the fact that my friends were 
drawing nearer assured me that they had seen me. 

“With you,” my boatman repeated, softly. “Do you 
pity me ?” 

“Yes—yes,” I answered. “How could I fail to pity 
you?” 

I was trembling violently, and even the fresh night 
airs were stifling me. 

I now observed that, though the canoe was headed for 
the shore, the bow was turned toward a point that was 
several hundred yards distant from the log-house. 

“You are not taking me home,” I murmured. 



220 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


“Those who follow us will do that,” my boatman said. 
“They must not see me, nor must you tell your friends 
that those you saw to-day were genii. You may tell them, 
however, that an Indian, finding you beside Deadwood 
Lake, just after the storm, brought you here. You will 
do this?” 

“Yes,” I faltered. 

There was a long pause. He was using the paddle 
more vigorously now, and the shouts that came to our 
ears from the pursuing boat were louder and more earnest. 

The canoe was rapidly approaching the shore, and in 
front of the log-house I saw the dancing of lanterns. I 
knew my anxious hostess was preparing to set out to 
meet the returning boat and was wondering why the canoe 
in which I sat was not approaching the regular landing 
place. 

“You will not give me your answer now?” my boat¬ 
man asked. 

With a little shrug of the shoulder, I said faintly: 

“There is only one to give. If what you say is true— 
if it is only I who can make you free, I must become your 
wife.” 

The strokes of the paddles ceased abruptly, and a great 
silence fell around us. 

“You will meet me three nights hence, at midnight, at 
the place at which we are about to land?” he asked in 
a low, eager, trembling voice. 

“I am to marry you then?” I murmured. 

“Yes/’ he answered. “But it will ruin both of us if, 
while the ceremony is being performed, or afterward on 
that night, you raise your eyes to my face. You will be 
there?” 

“Yes, I will be there,” I said. 

A voice from the boat that followed cried: 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 221 


“Miss Trevison.” 

“You may answer,” said my boatman, “but do not turn 
your head.” 

“I am here!” I cried. 

A few vigorous strokes of the paddle brought my 
canoe to the shore. 

“Remain seated,” said the boatman. “Do not look 
after me as I go. Three nights hence, at midnight, I 
will be here, and, except ourselves and the priest I will 
bring with me, no other person must know.” 

The side of the canoe was against the bank of a little 
cove. The boat rocked from side to side as the boatman 
left it. 

“Good-night, Paula,” he said. 

“Good-night, Rayon Demain,” I murmured, with a 
sigh. 

And, as I heard the twigs snapping as he strode quickly 
into the forest, I suddenly reflected that his name con¬ 
sisted of two French words which, together, signified “a 
beam of to-morrow.” 

“Miss Trevison!” 

Looking in the direction from whence this cry had 
come, I beheld a boat, propelled by two pairs of oars, 
moving quickly toward me. The rowers were the two 
men-servants from the log-house. 

“I am here,” I called back to them. 

In a few moments the bow of the boat was against the 
bank. 

“Who was that man that brought you here ?” one of the 
men asked, shortly. 

“An Indian,” I replied. 

“You have been to Deadwood Lake? 

“Yes,” I answered, coldly. “I was just entering it 
when the storm overtook me.” 


222 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


The moonlight enabled me to see a strange look settle 
on the face of the man who had questioned me. 

“I told you, Jim, no good would come of it,” the other 
muttered, surlily. 

“All right, George; it’s no business of ours—now 
we’ve found her,” Jim said, quietly, then addressing me, 
he added: “Better get in here with us, Miss. We can 
tow the canoe better if it is light.” 

I got into the boat, and ten minutes later Mrs. Seaver 
had me in her arms on the beach in front of the log- 
house. 

The story I told was simple. I explained that when 
the storm broke I had landed on the southern shore of 
Deadwood Lake, and, after nightfall, believing that the 
servants would come to seek me, I had been singing in 
order that my voice would guide them to me. Then an 
Indian had appeared, and I accepted his offer to take me 
to the log-house. 

“Why did you go there?” asked my hostess, looking 
at me curiously. 

“Because the north end of our lake was the only part 
of it I had not visited,” I replied. “I saw the stream 
that entered it, and, through it, I paddled up to Deadwood 
Lake.” 

“You must not go again,” Mrs. Seaver said, thought¬ 
fully. “You will promise me you will not go?” 

“Why, yes, Til promise you that,” I answered, laugh¬ 
ingly. 

A warm dinner was soon set before me, but I had little 
appetite for it. In my mind were ringing those fateful 
words which had been softly uttered by the unseen boat¬ 
man: “Three nights hence, at midnight, I will meet you 
here.” 

An hour later, when the lamp in my room was extin- 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 223 


guished, the moonlight, streaming through the open win¬ 
dow, found me with closed lids, but my dreams were of 
the strange, god-like man whose name signified “a beam 
of to-morrow.” 

When I woke the sun was shining on the valley and 
a robin was singing under my window. My heart was 
beating rapidly as, half-rising, I leaned on my elbow 
and glanced toward the window curtain on which I had 
found the verses pinned the morning before. 

A few moments later my feet were on the floor, and, 
with trembling steps, I approached the curtain on which 
I saw another envelope. The first had been marked: 
“For Paula.” On this was inscribed the name:— 
“Pauline.” 

Drawing out a sheet of notepaper, I read:— 

THY GONDOLIER 

Glide thou o’er moonlit waters where 
The lilies wake to see thee pass, 

And swing their censers to the air 
As acolytes at Beauty’s mass; 

Or move thee on the tide of dreams 
In stately barge; or, if in fear, 

Thou art on storm-swept lakes or streams, 

Let me be e’er thy gondolier. 

While Spring doth shine from out thine eyes, 

While brightly beams thy Summer’s sun 
And loving friends around thee rise, 

I’ll deem my lifelong task begun. 

Then, when exposed to Autumn’s breath, 

Other loves and faiths grow sere— 

Ay, when chill Winter comes, with Death, 

They’ll find me still thy gondolier. 

Twenty-four hours ago the author of the verses I then 
received was unknown to me, but now the mystery had 
been solved. The hand that had written the verses yes¬ 
terday was the same that had penned those of to-day. 


224 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


It was the hand of the mysterious boatman who had 
guided my canoe over the lake less than ten hours ago— 
the man whose wife I would be before the week was 
ended. 

But the next morning and the next I looked in vain 
for the expected envelope. My heart grew heavy with 
fear as I wondered what had prevented the writer’s 
coming. Had there been a tightening of the bonds that 
bound him to that dreadful valley? Would he be unable 
to keep the appointment he had made with me?” 

At length the fateful night arrived. I went to my 
room at nine o’clock, for this was the time my hostess 
and her servants were in the habit of retiring. For more 
than an hour I tried to read, but, naturally enough, I was 
unable to concentrate my thoughts on a book on the eve 
of such an important event in my life. Time and again 
I asked myself what would be the result of this unreason¬ 
able act I was about to do, but not once did my courage 
fail me. 

It was half past eleven o’clock when, after extinguish¬ 
ing the light that had been dimly burning, I lowered my¬ 
self from my window to the ground. 

Then for several moments I hesitated. The night was 
darker than I had expected to find it. Large clouds, 
moving from the northwest, totally obscured the moon 
from time to time, and the night breezes were freshening. 

Not knowing what fate awaited me, or whether I 
would be able to return to the log-house, I thrust into 
one of my pockets a purse containing all the money I had 
brought with me to the mountains. 

After stealing away from the house as quietly as pos¬ 
sible, I found the path that led along the shore of the 
lake to the place at which I had agreed to meet my boat¬ 
man. How much time it took to cover the distance I do 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 225 


not know, but on arriving at my destination I was not 
kept long in suspense for, from the shadow of a group 
of low trees, there came a voice. 

“Pauline,” it said softly. 

The voice was one that I could not have mistaken 
anywhere. 

“I am here,” I answered, firmly. 

“Do you remember?” asked the voice, and I detected 
a note of warning in its tone. 

“Yes,” I said. 

I heard the sound of approaching footsteps, but I did 
not raise my eyes. 

“This is Dr. Belford,” the voice went on. “He is a 
clergyman, and will marry us.” 

The ceremony was much shorter than I had expected 
it to be, and the words were quietly spoken. A strange 
thrill passed through me as the bridegroom took my hand, 
and I was trembling when he slipped the ring on my 
finger. Then, at last, I heard the fateful words: 

“I do now pronounce you man and wife.” 

And so I had my fairy prince at last! 

A great silence fell around me, then I heard the voice 
of the man who was now my husband. 

“Return to the cottage now, Pauline,” he said, gently. 
“To-morrow you will hear from me. It is forbidden that 
I should touch your lips with mine to-night, or that I 
should look into your eyes. But to-morrow—to-mor¬ 
row-” 

I heard him turn away. 

“Good-night, my dear,” he said. 

“Good-night, Rayon,” I answered, humbly. 

And so on our bridal night we parted, and in a few 
moments I was returning to the log-house by the path 
along which I had come from it. I had proceeded only 



226 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


a few paces, however, when from the direction of the 
log-house there came the sound of a pistol shot. 

I halted and my heart grew still. Then I heard three 
other shots in quick succession. These were followed by 
the hoarse voices of men. 

For several moments terror held me spellbound. Then, 
standing motionless in the path, I heard the sound of 
someone running toward me from the forest. Cowering 
with fear, I shrank behind a dwarf evergreen. The dark 
shadow moved swiftly past, about thirty feet away from 
me. This was quickly followed by another. They were 
men, but I was unable to see the faces of either. 

A succession of women’s shrieks and the cries of men 
now rose from the log-house. Then, looking in that 
direction, I saw something that brought a cry of horror 
to my lips. 

The structure was in flames! 

Still I hesitated, but the pitiful cries of a woman—cries 
that I knew were Mrs. Seaver’s—caused me to fling to 
the winds all fears for my personal safety. Running and 
stumbling, I made my way along the path, and, as I ran, 
the dull, angry glow of the burning house grew brighter. 
I heard another pistol shot, but the only fear I felt was 
for the hostess who had so kindly cared for me. 

At length, reaching the clearing round the house, I saw 
Mrs. Seaver running toward me. I called her name, but 
at that moment a tall man overtook her, and, seizing her 
in a rough grasp, started with her toward the burning 
house. Up the steps he ran, then, with a curse so loud 
that it reached my ears, the man hurled the woman 
through the door. 

As I hurried forward. I recognized the perpetrator of 
the terrible act, and, in a shrieking voice, I cried: 

“Rayon—Rayon—are you mad?” 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 227 


The tall man turned and thrust away a second tall 
figure that was about to throw itself upon him. Then, as 
swiftly as a deer, Rayon ran to me. 

Never shall I forget the awful expression that I saw 
upon his face as, standing before me, he looked into 
my eyes. 

“Come—devil or angel—you belong to me now,’' he 
said, laughing roughly. “To-night I have declared my¬ 
self free.” 

As he grasped one of my arms it seemed to me that 
his fingers were burning their way to its bone. 

“Stop—stop—coward—help me!” I cried at the top 
of my voice. 

The lips of the magnificent fiend again parted in a 
smile. 

“Come,” he began, but he said no more. 

A powerful fist, passing before my eyes, had felled him 
to my feet. Freed from his grasp, I turned to the man 
who had rescued me. 

Then I saw that he to whom I owed my release was 
the man whose grotesque face—a very caricature of the 
human visage—had looked down upon me in New York 
while I was preparing to board a train for the Adiron- 
dacks—the man whose almost indescribable ugliness had 
caused me to refer to him as “the Gargoyle.” 

“Are you hurt?” he asked in an abrupt, thick voice. 

“No—no, but Mrs. Seaver! She-” 

The Gargoyle, laying one hand on my shoulder, pointed 
to the milk-house, and said: 

“She is safe. Go to her.” 

Rayon, who for a few moments had appeared to be 
insensible, now began to rise. 

“Go!” the Gargoyle repeated, sharply. 

I needed no further urging, and several seconds later 



228 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


I was at Mrs. Seaver’s side. She was moaning pitifully 
as I approached her, but, as soon as she saw me, she 
uttered a cry of relief and clasped me in her arms. 

“Who has done all this?” I asked. 

“The demons from the valley,” she sobbed. “It was 
the Indian who set fire to the house. The other—the 
white man-” 

James, one of the menservants, came running up. 

“We can’t save the house ma’am,” he said quickly, 
“but I guess all else is safe enough now. The redskin 
is dead, and—oh, God!” 

A look of horror overspread the speaker’s face and his 
rifle fell from his hand. Nor did I marvel that his 
courage had left him. Standing near us, with the lurid 
glare of the fire lighting his terrible features, was the 
Gargoylle. 

“’Tis the devil himself!” James muttered between his 
chattering teeth. 

With a little cry of terror, Mrs. Seaver hid her face 
in her hands. 

For several moments the strange being before me 
looked meditatively at our little group. Then, turning 
quickly, he strode off into the forest. 

“Oh, James—James, you must get us away from 
here to-night—now!” cried Mrs. Seaver desperately. 
“Where is George?” 

James, turning his face toward the lake, shrugged his 
shoulders slightly, but said nothing. 

“Dead?” I asked in a trembling voice. 

James faced me slowly. 

‘Yes, Miss,” he said, quietly. “The white devil killed 
him—with an axe.” 

“And Mary?” Mrs. Seaver faltered. 

“She tried to shoot him, but he was too quick for her,” 



THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 229 


said James. “She, too, went down.” Then, turning to 
me, he added, abruptly: “He was seeking you, Miss. I 
was afraid-” 

I could hear no more. The ground seemed to give 
away beneath my feet, and, tottering forward, I stumbled 
and fell. 

When I recovered consciousness, James and Mrs. 
Seaver were helping me into a covered wagon. As I 
looked around me, I saw the barn was in flames, the 
light of which had transformed the lake I loved into 
a great orange-colored thing that filled me with dismay. 

“Where are we going?” I asked faintly, as I sank on 
a roll of blankets. 

“We are going to leave these terrible mountains,” Mrs. 
Seaver replied, in a strange, hard voice. “Until this 
hour I loved them, but I hate them now and I hope that 
I may never see them more. James will drive us to the 
nearest railway station, then he will report to the proper 
officials all that has happened. He will return with men 
to help him bury poor George and Mary. Everything 
we had here, except the horses and the wagon, has been 
destroyed, so let us go.” 

A week later, sitting in my apartment in New York, 
I read in a newspaper an account of how deputy sheriffs, 
seeking the outlaw, Rayon Demain, had come upon a 
remarkable cavern in Deadwood Valley. It was ap¬ 
parent that this cavern was, for the most part, the work 
of man. Windows, which afforded light and ventilation 
to the various chambers, were high up in an almost inac¬ 
cessible mountainside, and were so cunningly constructed 
and concealed that it was not until after the secret entrance 
to the cavern had been discovered that their presence in 
the big rock wall was suspected. 

The cavern contained several galleries, and there were 



230 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


about nine rooms in all. In these rooms were found 
hundreds of valuable books, several different kinds of 
musical instruments, paraphernalia for the exhibition of 
moving pictures and a well-equipped gymnasium. 

But by far the most remarkable of the discoveries made 
was a large collection of magnificent paintings, most of 
which were of an allegorical nature. These had been 
identified as the work of Nathan Bonfield, who, many 
years before, had given promise of becoming one of the 
greatest painters of his period, but of whom, in recent 
years, little was known. It was found, too, that Bon¬ 
field was a frequent visitor to Deadwood Valley, and there 
was some reason to suspect that Rayon Demain, now 
charged with the murder of two of Mrs. Seaver’s ser¬ 
vants, was some relative of the eccentric painter’s. 

It had been learned also that for many years an Indian, 
named Glenagassett, had been Demain’s almost constant 
attendant, and that it was this Indian who had lighted 
the fire that destroyed Mrs. Seaver’s buildings. What 
had been the motive that inspired this deed, no man knew. 
The Indian had been killed and Demain had mysteriously 
disappeared. Of Bonfield’s present whereabouts nothing 
was known. 

But before these matter-of-fact reports were published 
in the newspapers, I had been disillusioned. From the 
moment that the brutal Rayon had been sent to earth by 
a blow from a human hand, I knew how absurd had been 
those superstitions which, excited by that Adirondack 
storm, had endowed him with more than human attri¬ 
butes. My god-like man had degenerated into some¬ 
thing that was little better than one of the lower animals. 
The outlaw, whose wife I had become, was either a mon¬ 
ster or a madman. 

As may be readily understood, the secret of my night 



THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 231 


canoe trip and my midnight marriage never left my lips. 
I was resolved that not even Prince Maranotti should 
learn of my almost inconceivable act of folly, if I could 
prevent that knowledge from reaching him. 

Fearful lest I should again fall into the clutches of 
Demain, I became anxious to return to Europe. The 
fear of Meschid Pasha and his friend Glyncamp no 
longer haunted me. Upon me Meschid had no claim, 
and so long as I kept away from Turkish territory it was 
scarcely likely that either of these enemies would make 
any attempt to rob me of my newfound liberty. It was 
as the daughter of the late Prince Maranotti I would 
now take my place in the world. 

As soon as the young Prince, my brother, returned 
from the West I attempted to persuade him to allow me 
to go with him to Europe. To this, however, he de¬ 
murred. I must remain in the United States, he said, 
and retain the name of Paula Trevison. 

“It is here that you must marry and make your home,” 
he told me. “Through Trevison I will make ample pro¬ 
vision for you, but it is contrary to your interests and 
mine that you be known as Pauline Maranotti. The 
members of the nobility would not receive you, and your 
lot in Italy would be exceedingly unhappy.” 

I would not have it so, however. The result was that 
we quarreled and parted in anger. The following day I 
received a visit from the Prince’s American lawyer, who 
told me my brother had deposited in a New York 
bank the sum of ten thousand dollars, in the name of 
Paula Trevison. This was to constitute my allowance 
for the year. The lawyer also informed me that on that 
morning the Prince had embarked on a vessel for Italy. 

While the lawyer was with me, I succeeded in restrain¬ 
ing my feelings, but as soon as he was gone a spirit of 


232 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


revolt asserted itself, and I determined that I would go 
to England, seek out my mother’s relatives and enlist 
their support in an attempt to assert my claim to recogni¬ 
tion as a daughter of the house of Maranotti, and, as 
such, one who rightfully might claim a part of its vast 
estate. 

Kind as he had been to me, the Prince had at last 
plainly given me to understand that my mother’s flight 
from his father’s cruelty was unwarranted, and that, in 
the interest of the family, he would be compelled to recog¬ 
nize me only privately as his half-sister. In short I was 
to be dependent on his benevolence for that financial aid 
to which I had an hereditary right. This, together with 
the light manner in which he had set off for Europe, with¬ 
out coming to bid me farewell, had thoroughly angered 
me, and from a sense of respect for my injured mother, 
as well as from a sense of my individual rights in the 
matter, I was determined that this masquerade as Paula 
Trevison should cease. 

Having taken this resolution, I decided to act in ac¬ 
cordance with it without delay. 

Looking over the advertising columns of a newspaper, 
I saw that a large steam yacht had been chartered by a 
tourist company for an early Autumn cruise among the 
British Isles. I never had been aboard a steam yacht, 
and it occurred to me that perhaps on such a vessel I 
would be less likely to be seen by anyone who had known 
me before. It was not such a vessel as a friend of Glyn- 
camp’s or Meschid’s would be likely to take, nor was it 
probable that the fugitive, Demain, would embark on 
such a trip. I saw that I could leave the yacht at any 
of its stopping places, and as these, for the most part, 
were not likely to be regular ports of entry, I might the 
more easily succeed in escaping detection. 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 233 


The vessel was to sail on the morrow. Accordingly 
I drew from the bank the full amount that had been de¬ 
posited there to my credit and took passage on the steam 
yacht, Highland Lady. 

Except for one incident, this voyage was uneventful. 
Near the close of our fourth day out, we sighted a 
derelict that lay almost directly in our course. As our 
yacht drew near this ill-fated vessel it was seen that it 
had been ravaged by fire, but from the charred staff 
over the stern a white cloth was fluttering, and a closer 
inspection showed that a rope was trailing from one of 
the davits. Believing, therefore, that some living person 
still might be on the helpless vessel, our captain sent 
four men in one of the yacht’s boats to learn whether 
survivors were aboard. 

On the derelict one man was found, and never shall 
I forget the spectacle he presented when, haggard and 
delirious, he was brought aboard the Highland Lady. 
He was taken to one of the staterooms, and, heartily 
pitying the poor fellow, I asked the yacht’s surgeon if 
I could do anything to aid him. 

The offer was made impulsively, and I was a little 
startled when the doctor said: 

‘Why, yes, Miss Trevison, you can help me, if you 
will. He has a bad scratch on one of his arms—from a 
piece of metal, I suppose—and, if we don’t give it treat¬ 
ment at once, it is likely to cause considerable trouble.” 

Then, asking all others, except a stewardess and my¬ 
self to leave the room, the doctor prepared to dress the 
injured arm. After a careful examination, he said he 
would have to lance it. He, therefore, asked me to hold 
the arm while he performed the simple operation. While 
he was preparing for this, the physician’s attention was 
distracted by the sound of a concertina, which, played 


234 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


by a little son of one of the passengers, had annoyed 
many persons during the voyage. The doctor, stepping 
to the door, directed that the concertina be silenced. He 
then turned to his patient. 

All was over in a few minutes, but, while I held the 
arm, the delirious man struggled desperately, and never 
will I forget the look of horror I saw on his haggard 
face. When the lancing was finished the doctor washed 
the arm and, after applying some sort of ointment, he 
bandaged it. 

When all was done, I left the stateroom, just as a 
steward entered it with a bowl of steaming broth. 

Later in the day, when I stopped at the stateroom 
door to learn the condition of the patient, he opened his 
eyes suddenly and, seeing me, he accused me of being a 
vampire. When I visited the stateroom on the following 
morning he repeated the strange charge. Then, learning 
that I was the only visitor whom he had addressed in this 
astonishing manner, I discontinued my visits. 

The Highland Lady was to make her first stop at the 
Scilly Islands and, as it was scarcely likely that the suf¬ 
ferer would find good hospital treatment there, he was 
transferred to a vessel bound for Liverpool. 

Shortly after this, upon picking up an English news¬ 
paper that had been published only a day or two after 
we had taken the stranger from the Hannibal , I saw an 
account of how an American ship captain had sent a 
man aboard the Hannibal in order that he might be able 
to report on the derelict's condition. This man had found 
no one on the vessel. As his visit had been made more 
than a week after the burning Hannibal had been aban¬ 
doned by its crew, and before it had been sighted by the 
Highland Lady, the fact that the presence of the famished 
man we took off had not been discovered, struck me as 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 235 


extraordinary. It did, however, account for the unburned 
rope which we had seen trailing from the davit. 

Upon my arrival in England, the few surviving rela¬ 
tives of my mother received me coldly, and were frank 
enough to tell me that the treatment I had received from 
the Prince was better than I had a right to expect. Then, 
reluctantly deciding to abandon my determination to in¬ 
sist that I should be formally acknowledged as the late 
Prince’s daughter, I returned to the United States. 

In the vessel that brought me across the Atlantic I 
met a young woman, about my own age, who was the 
wife of Adolph Janot, an aviator and the inventor of 
an improved seaplane which then was being subjected 
to a series of tests by the government. Mrs. Janot and 
I became great friends, and, when we arrived in New 
York, it was at her suggestion that I took a small suite of 
rooms in the apartment hotel in which she made her 
home. Several times, in the course of the weeks that 
followed, Mr. Janot invited me to go up with him in 
his big seaplane, but, unable to conquer my strange fears, 
I always declined. 

Correspondence between the Prince and myself soon 
completely effected a reconciliation, and when, a few 
months after our parting, he found it necessary to return 
to the United States, it was arranged that he should be 
my guest. 

It was while the Prince still was on the Atlantic that 
I saw in a newspaper a report of the death of Rayon 
Demain. According to t-his, the young man, who then 
was passing under an assumed name, was slain in Arizona 
in singularly mysterious circumstances. Concerning his 
identity, however, there was not the slightest doubt. 

The report was brief and I read the lines without 
emotion. My love for this misguided man was only 


236 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


an incident of a long midsummer night’s dream, after all. 
His physical perfections, his verses to me and the words 
I heard him speak while he guided the canoe across the 
moonlit lake had captivated me. Taking advantage of 
my superstitions, he had caused me to become his wife, 
then, in an hour of inexplicable madness, he had assumed 
the aspect of a fiend, and I had learned to loathe him. So 
lightly had I come to regard that midnight marriage that 
it was difficult for me to realize that in the eyes of the 
law I was a widow. 

When my half-brother and I met again we became 
even better friends than we had been before. He told me 
something, however, that disquieted me. Lord Galon- 
field had been seeking me in Europe, and had caused the 
Prince to be informed that he had obtained possession of 
the Rajiid diamonds which, according to an arrangement 
with Meschid Pasha, were to constitute the price of my 
hand in marriage. The Prince gave the young nobleman 
no information concerning me. 

Like me, the Prince was passionately fond of the better 
class of music, and, during the six months he remained in 
New York, we frequently went together to musicales and 
the opera. It was at the Metropolitan Opera House that 
I first saw Philip Wadsworth, a well-to-do young man, 
who was destined to play an important part in my life. 

The circumstances incident to the manner in which 
Mr. Wadsworth wooed and wed me have been related 
by that gentleman himself. 

Several times I had been puzzled by his occasional 
periods of abstraction, but on the day of our marriage 
I was wholly at a loss to account for his remarkable 
display of nervousness, and, during the ceremony, I ob¬ 
served that some of his responses were uttered almost 
as if he were speaking against his will. His increasing 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 237 


haggardness in the cab that took us to the pier startled 
me, and then, for the first time, I fancied that I saw in 
his face something that was suggestive of a face I had 
seen before. But it was not until he entered the state¬ 
room, just before the vessel left the pier, that I recognized 
him. 

The haggard face of my husband was that of the 
delirious man who had been taken from the derelict, 
and in his eyes was the same expression I had seen in 
them when he had called me a vampire! 

Then, as if in confirmation of my discovery, there came 
to my ears from the pier the sound of a concertina. Sev¬ 
eral times, while the rescued man was on board the High¬ 
land Lady, passengers found it necessary to rebuke the 
irrepressible boy whose playing of a concertina near the 
sick man’s room was likely to disturb his rest. 

Deserted by the man who, scarcely more than an hour 
before, had made me his wife, I continued on my way 
to Europe. There a cablegram from the Prince recalled 
me to the United States. Upon my return I was in¬ 
formed that Mr. Wadsworth had mysteriously disap¬ 
peared, leaving no explanation of his desertion of me. 

My brother’s anger and indignation knew no bounds, 
but, fearing that if the affair got to the attention of the 
public, his true name might be revealed, he decided to 
institute no legal proceedings against the man who had 
so cruelly deserted me. 

When the time arrived for me to bid farewell to the 
Prince, I went down to the pier with Mrs. Janot to see 
him off. On my return to my room, I found among the 
letters the postman had brought during my absence an 
envelope addressed in a handwriting that drove the color 
from my face. 

I quickly opened the envelope, and, as I drew out the 


238 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


sheet it contained I saw it contained more verses from 
the hand of Rayon Demain! 

With a cry of anguish, I sank insensible to the floor. 

When I recovered consciousness, Mrs. Janot was bend¬ 
ing over me. As, in her sympathetic way, she asked me 
the cause of my trouble, I shrank from her in dismay. 

What would this good woman have said if I had told 
her I was a bigamist? 

The following day I received other verses, and a letter. 
Neither bore the hated name, however, for they were 
signed “Thy Gondolier.” The letter informed me that 
the writer was in New York, and he besought me to 
receive him when he called at three o’clock on the follow¬ 
ing afternoon. 

I had rented my apartment furnished, and three trunks 
were sufficient to hold all my personal property. These 
trunks were quickly packed, and, four hours after I had 
received the verses and letter, I left the house. 

I went first to a modest hotel, and then rented and 
furnished a flat in the northern part of the city. The 
only persons who knew my new address were the Janots 
and the Prince’s lawyer. 

For several weeks I was undisturbed, then I was com¬ 
pletely prostrated by the report of the assassination of 
Prince Maranotti, at Basselanto. The news came to me 
through his American lawyer, who informed me that two 
men were suspected of the crime. Of these, one was a 
man whose features were those of a “laughing devil,” 
and the other was a cousin of the man who was slain. 

The description of the first man was so similar to that 
of the man known to me as the “Gargoyle,” that I could 
scarcely doubt that it was indeed this person who had 
committed the act. I had heard the Prince speak once of 
a cousin in America—“a helpless sort of a fellow,” he 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 239 


said—whom I might chance to meet one day. He ad¬ 
vised me, however, not to take this man into my confi¬ 
dence. 

Assured by my legal adviser that my claim to the 
Maranotti estates was indisputable, I placed the matter 
entirely in his hands. He then decided that, for the 
present, at least, it would be better for me to remain in 
the United States while he went to Italy to consult with 
legal authorities there. Two days after my lawyer sailed, 
a cablegram from Italy was received at his office. The 
cablegram yielded the information that the will of Prince 
Maranotti had been found and that he left all the Mara¬ 
notti estates to me. 

Five days have passed since my lawyer left New York. 
During the first three I remained in my apartments. Yes¬ 
terday afternoon, however, Mrs. Janot invited me to take 
an automobile trip with her to Rockaway where, at the 
aviation station, her husband was going to try out one 
of his new seaplanes. Believing the trip would improve 
my spirits, which were somewhat depressed because of 
my long seclusion indoors, I accepted the invitation. 

Arriving at Rockaway, we were welcomed by Mr. 
Janot, who, in a launch, took us out to the new seaplane. 
Not suspecting that any attempt would be made to take 
me on a flight against my will, I was easily persuaded 
to board the big machine and seat myself in the fusilage. 
For several minutes Mr. Janot explained to me the nature 
of the mechanism by means of which the seaplane was 
controlled. While I listened, a mechanician was oiling 
one of the great motors. 

With a suddenness that completely bewildered me, the 
whole structure began to vibrate and I was almost deaf¬ 
ened by the sound of the motors’ exhaust. I turned to 
protest, but in the roar my words were inaudible. Mr. 


240 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


Janot smiled grimly and avoided my gaze as he continued 
to manipulate the mechanical devices with which he was 
surrounded. 

With ever-increasing speed, the plane now was moving 
over the surface of the water; then I saw we were rising. 
Slowly my resentment died away. As we sped onward 
and upward, I closed my eyes. Again I found myself 
under the spell of old Arabian tales. One moment I felt 
like Sinbad in the talons of a roc; another, and I was 
mounted on the back of a flying steed, and then I would 
fancy I was nestling on the crooked arm of a great, 
black, Sphinx-faced genie, who, with the speed of a 
comet, was traversing the star-strewn wilderness of the 
night. Nor did the mighty coughing of the motors’ 
exhaust find vulnerable the all-pervading ecstasy which 
filled my mind with visions of the wonders of Moham¬ 
med’s Paradise. 

From time to time I looked down at the wonderful 
panorama that was moving under me. I caught my 
breath as I saw scores of clusters of toy-houses, and woods 
and fields, and the sea, wrinkled and gray, stretching out 
to the horizon. 

But, suddenly, my fears overwhelmed me again. The 
coughing of the motors ceased and I was conscious of 
a faint sensation of sinking. Looking down, I saw there 
was land below us—a great expanse of greenish-yellow 
meadows, lined with many gray creeks of various sizes. 
Toward these meadows the seaplane was gliding, ap¬ 
parently heading for a big barge that was moored to 
a bank of one of the larger creeks. 

It was near the mouth of one of the creeks that we 
came to water. Scarcely was the seaplane at rest when 
Mr. Janot and his mechanician began making a collapse 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 241 


boat ready for service. As I looked at them wonderingly, 
Mr. Janot said: 

“Something serious has happened. The motors are 
overheated and the machine is unsafe. We must get 
you ashore at once.” 

Two or three minutes later I was in the boat and 
Mr. Janot rowed me to the shore. He helped me to land. 
As he stepped back into the boat, he said: 

“The condition of the plane is such that I dare not ask 
you to return to it. I think you will have little difficulty 
in getting to a railway station, with the assistance of 
someone you will find on the barge yonder.” He paused, 
then added: “When we meet again, you will understand, 
and will not blame me for leaving you in this unfortunate 
situation. Good-night.” 

Speechless with astonishment, I watched him row back 
to the seaplane. Soon after he boarded it, its exhaust 
sounded again and it took the air. 

The declining sun warned me that if I was to get to 
the railroad before nightfall, it would be necessary for me 
to act quickly. Not far from me was the barge I had 
seen in the course of the seaplane's descent. I was about 
to go toward this when I heard the discharge of a gun, 
and saw the fall of several ducks that had been flying 
overhead. Thinking that the man who fired the gun 
was from the barge, I hurried toward the bank which 
concealed him from my view. Reaching this, I saw him 
in a little boat, and to him I appealed for aid in getting 
me to the railroad. This, he thought, could not be done 
at night. Thanks to his courtesy, however, I soon found 
myself on this barge where I was welcomed by Mr. West- 
fall. I was compelled to remain against my will, but 
already our host has partly convinced me that it was well 
I did so. Painful as have been the narratives of the 


242 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


three gentlemen who have proved that I have been respon¬ 
sible for the grievous misfortunes that have befallen 
them, I willingly await the stories to be told by the others, 
with the hope that what they have to tell will lift forever 
from my unhappy life the clouds of mystery and fear 
which now envelop it. 

As the Veiled Aeronaut finished speaking, all eyes, 
‘flashing with disapproval and curiosity, were turned to¬ 
ward the Gargoyle, whose ever-smiling face was partly 
concealed by one of his long, white hands. 

“Well, sir—well?” demanded the Nervous Physician, 
irritably. “We are now prepared to hear your explana¬ 
tion, I believe.” 

The Gargoyle, drumming nervously on the table, 
glanced interrogatively toward Westfall. But before the 
millionaire had time to speak, the Fugitive Bridegroom, 
leaning across the table, addressed the Aeronaut. 

“Then my—my doubts—my horrible suspicions—were 
only the results of delirium, after all,” he said, in a hoarse, 
broken voice. 

“Of course, of course,” replied the Nervous Physician. 
“Isn’t it clear enough to you now? There is scarcely an 
hour in the day when some delirious man or woman in 
New York is not receiving such impressions. A man 
whose bare feet get below his bedclothes on a Winter’s 
night will dream that he is in the Arctic regions, and to 
a dreamer incidents which seem to occupy hours will pass 
through his mind in a few seconds. Science has shown 
that in a five-minute dream a man may read a three- 
volume novel. Most men know this, and, when delirium 
is passed, they have sense enough to put aside the fantastic 
impressions they have received. You, however, have 
hoarded yours, with the result that you have made a 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 243 


fool of yourself, and have withdrawn from this inestima¬ 
ble young woman the protection she had a natural right 
to expect from you. I have no sympathy for you, sir— 
none. Now let us hear what this miserable Gargoyle 
has to say. Why don’t you speak, sir?” 

“Stop!” commanded Westfall sharply. “In no cir¬ 
cumstances, Doctor, is any of my guests to be subjected 
to insult while on this barge. The Gargoyle awaits your 
apology, sir.” 

The Homicidal Professor leaned forward. 

“We are to understand, then, that the appearance of 
the Princess on this marsh, and so near this barge, is not 
to be regarded as a coincidence?” he asked, impressively. 

Westfall shook his head gravely. 

“No, it was not that,” he said. “Having learned that 
her highness was on friendly terms with the Janots, I 
persuaded the aviator to bring her here at the time and 
in the manner she appeared. Our plan had been care¬ 
fully arranged. But, Doctor, I have reminded you 
that the Gargoyle is expecting an apology.” 

“Well, let him have it, then,” snapped the nervous 
physician, as the Homicidal Professor again settled back 
in his chair. “I apologize now, sir, but, in time, I may 
withdraw my apology.” 

“We will now hear the story of the Hypochondriacal 
Painter,” said Westfall. 

The Hypochondriacal Painter stroked his white beard 
meditatively for a few moments, then, in a deep, mellow 
voice, he began: 


CHAPTER VII 


THE IMAGE OF GOD 

The story which I have to tell will be briefer than the 
others you have heard, but it is the story of twenty-three 
long, delusive years. It is the story of an ambition that 
was reaching up to Heaven when, like Babel’s tower, it 
succumbed to confusion, and fell crumbling to the earth. 

My father, dying just after I became of age, left me 
a large, carefully invested fortune, and if I had acted in 
accordance with his last wishes I would have addressed 
myself to commercial pursuits, as he had done. But Art 
had enthralled my mind, and I made my home in Paris 
where I studied painting under several masters. 

From the first, fortune favored me, and critics already 
were beginning to refer to me as the most promising 
painter that the New World ever had given to the old. 
My head was turned, and I aspired to climb to artistic 
heights that few men had been bold enough to try to scale. 

I conceived the idea of a great painting that should 
be my masterpiece. In this the central figure was to be 
the Deity, Himself. For more than two years I sought 
a model for this wonderful figure, but my search was 
vain. My idea had its inception in the scriptural authority 
that “God created man in his own image.” I sought the 
perfect man. During this period I made hundreds of 
sketches, trying to evolve from many models points of 
perfection that might be embodied in an harmonious 
whole. 


244 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 245 


I had no suggestion from any of the old masters to aid 
me. Every deity that the world has worshipped has been, 
at some time and in some manner, represented by the 
reverent hands of sculptors and painters. But few Chris¬ 
tian sculptors ever attempted to give form to Him who 
made man in His own image, and these few were content 
to imitate the ancient conceptions of Jove. 

Late one New Year’s Eve, I knew that I had failed, so, 
collecting all the sketches I had made, I hurled them into 
my fireplace. Then, with a sharp knife, I went to the 
end of the studio where stood the great canvas, with its 
background partly painted, on which I had designed to 
place my conception of the wonderful image. 

I mounted a stepladder, and was about to thrust the 
knife into the top of the canvas when a sound, coming to 
me from the hall, caused me to hesitate. 

It was the cry of a new-born child! 

I knew its parents. The father had died six months 
before this plaintive cry, even now, had reached my ears. 
He had been an unfortunate artist, and had left his 
widow so destitute that I was contributing to her sup¬ 
port. She was nearly forty now, and, in her youth she 
had been very beautiful. But poverty and care had 
extinguished many of her former charms long before 
this, her first, child came into the world to share her life 
of misery. 

A new idea now flashed into my mind, and, as I 
thought, I slowly descended the ladder. 

Half an hour later, when I laid the gleaming knife 
upon my table, the canvas was still untouched by the 
blade, and in that still, grimy old studio it remains 
untouched at this very hour, for no foot has crossed the 
threshold since that fateful New Year’s Eve. 

I took the infant from its dying mother’s arms, and 


246 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


before the first month of the new year was ended the 
babe was in the United States. Here I confided it to the 
care of a New England woman who, for two years, cared 
for it as if it had been her own. 

I had been shooting and painting in the Adirondacks 
several years before, and, profoundly impressed by the 
grandeur of its great mountain fastnesses, I thought that 
somewhere among them it might be possible to find one 
which no human foot, unguided by mine, would tread for 
a quarter of a century. 

I now determined to search for such a valley, and, tak¬ 
ing with me Glenagassett, the most perfect type of Indian 
manhood I had ever met, I set out on my quest. 

In course of time, we came to what is now known as 
Deadwood Valley. There I found a little natural cave, 
and across the front of this Glenagassett and I built a wall 
of logs. Then, returning to New York, I took the two- 
year-old child, and, retracing my steps through the moun¬ 
tains, I found myself again in the valley. Here I gave 
the child into the care of Glenagassett. 

To the Indian I then confided my purpose. I told him 
that this child was Rayon Demain—“the beam of to¬ 
morrow”—that he was the son of the Great Spirit, him¬ 
self, and that he should come to possess all the Great 
Spirit’s powers should he attain his twenty-third year 
without seeing the face of a woman, or exchanging words 
with any man whom I did not take to him myself. Amid 
these solitudes the child should be taught that he was lord 
of all, and that when the right hour came, his supremacy 
over nature and man would be fully proclaimed. 

The boy, Rayon, was to be taught the language of the 
forest as Indians had been able to understand it. He 
should be impressed, too, with the belief that the storm, 
the waves and every living thing in the wilderness were 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 247 


daily beseeching him to exert in their behalf his godlike, 
dormant power. 

I told the Indian also that not until the boy was ten 
years old would I see him again, but that at that time, 
when his forest education was done, I would bring other 
teachers. 

All this was in accordance with a theory that I had 
formed—a theory that the human mind is the sculptor of 
the features and poise that express its meaning. In short, 
that if a man is to have the facial expression of a god, 
he must think as a god, and have god-like things to look 
upon. 

When the workmen left the valley, Rayon and Glena- 
gassett reentered it. While he was away the boy had 
seen no face other than that of the Indian. 

When the lad was ten I visited him. I saw Glenagas- 
sett had done well. Whether Rayon talked, walked, ran, 
or swam in the dark lake, his grace, dignity and self- 
possession amazed me, and, always clean-minded and with 
more than even a proud man’s self-respect, he already 
had begun to develop the most remarkable .beauty I ever 
had seen on a human face. 

I then had a new and more spacious rock chamber 
finished, and I sent to Rayon teachers whom I could trust 
to carry out the delusion I had been so carefully fostering 
in his mind. Believing me to be a messenger of the 
Great Spirit, his father, he corresponded with me, report¬ 
ing to me on what he had learned each day. The books, 
music and pictures I sent to him were carefully chosen, 
and were of a nature to encourage in him a belief that 
he was superior to the human race. 

When the boy was eighteen I began to visit him more 
frequently. Amazed by the manner in which my theory 
was working out, I began to feel myself inferior to this 


248 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


strange youth, whose mind was dominated by a sense of 
power, and into whose heart no guile had ever entered. 
There were times when even I was half-tempted to share 
Glenagassett’s belief that the youth really possessed 
divine attributes. 

At length, when the boy was twenty, I assured myself 
that I would have only three or four years more to wait, 
and that then the marvelous figure would at last find its 
place on the big canvas in my closed Parisian studio. 

Clouds at last began to rise above the horizon, how¬ 
ever. In the valley below Deadwood lake a woman 
established a summer home, and brought several serv¬ 
ants with her. Glenagassett wanted to burn the log- 
house then, but, fool that I was, I forbade him to do so. 

I was beginning to be confident of Rayon’s own power 
now. 

Rayon had just entered his twenty-second year when, 
on a visit to the valley, I learned that a beautiful young 
woman had passed through the mountains. The Indian 
feared she was going to live with Mrs. Seaver. 

“Shall I kill her?” Glenagassett asked me, eagerly. 

But—still a fool—I told him ‘no’—to wait and see. 

One day, while I was sitting in the cavern, there came 
a violent storm. I rose, and, walking to one of the 
windows, I watched the tempest as it rocked and threshed 
the valley. When it was over I lay down and slept. 

When I awoke a sweet, strange sound was coming to 
me through the window I left open. Rising quickly I 
hurried to the window and listened. 

It was a love-song—sung by a woman whose voice, 
stealing through and over the silent wilderness, was as 
beautiful as an angel’s. 

Hurrying down the shore, I ran like a madman toward 
the place from which the voice was rising—the very spot 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 249 


on which I stood when I first delivered the little Rayon 
into the keeping of Glenagassett. 

It was a long, hard scramble that I had undertaken, 
and my way lay over soggy mounds, shifting stones and 
fallen trees. Branch after branch smote me as I ran, 
until, with my strength all spent, I was compelled to pause 
before I reached my destination. 

The first song had ceased, then, after a pause, the voice 
of the singer rose again. She was singing “The Lost 
Chord.” 

Once more I staggered on, and, when I came upon the 
singer, I saw that Rayon stood beside her in the moon¬ 
light, with a hand resting on one of her arms. 

Despair suddenly gripped my heart as I realized that 
the woman was no less beautiful than her wondrous 
voice! 

My effort to draw Rayon away was successful, but, all 
the way back to the cavern he strode ahead of me, gazing 
sullenly to the ground. 

At the cavern entrance he turned. 

“Are all the devils as fair as that?” he asked. 

I shook my head. 

“No, no,” I answered, gravely. “The fairest has been 
sent to tempt the strongest man.” 

He looked at me long and steadily. 

“If you have deceived me, you must not live longer, 
Nathan,” he said; then, as if thinking aloud, he added: 
“I will see, I will see.” 

That night the cavern chambers were too narrow to 
hold my thoughts, so I went out into the valley, and for 
more than three hours I walked alone beneath the stars. 

Returning to the cavern I woke Glenagassett. 

“The women must leave the valley below,” I said. 

“They shall go,” Glenagassett answered. 


250 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


Not once on the following day did Rayon speak to me. 
At night he retired early to his chamber. 

The following morning, when I saw Glenagassett, I 
said: 

'‘The women are not gone.” 

“They will go to-night,” he replied, gloomily. 

I nodded, and passed on. That day Rayon started off 
alone, but the Indian followed him. In the evening 
Rayon came to me. 

“Does the Prince of Evil always look like the pictures 
we see of him, Nathan?” he asked. 

“I think so,” I answered. “But why do you ask me 
that?” 

“Because I’ve seen him,” he muttered, thoughtfully. 
“He haunts her every night, and-” 

“Haunts who?” I asked. 

“The woman.” 

“Well, may he take her, then!” I retorted, irritably. 

“Do you think he will?” 

“I have not the slightest doubt that he will get her 
eventually,” I muttered. 

“The Prince of Darkness must be tamed,” he said, 
gloomily. “We’ll see to that—Glanagassett and I.” 

Half-choked by emotions of anger and fear, I looked 
at him several moments, without speaking. Rayon was 
looking down the valley toward the stream through which 
the waters of Deadwood Lake pass to the valley below. 

“You have been going to the log-house at night?” I 
asked. 

“He is always there,” Rayon went on moodily, “and, 
night before last, I met him face to face. Nathan, what 
is fear? How does one feel, who has it?” 

“He feels as you must never feel, Rayon,” I replied, 
looking at him wonderingly. 



THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 251 


“Is it a shrinking feeling—a feeling that a man might 
have if some great eagle fastened its talons in his head 
and was jerking out all his thoughts? Is it a thing that 
traps his voice, and holds down his hands when he would 
raise them—that grips his feet like boggy places?” 

“Yes—yes,” I faltered. “But-” 

“Then I have felt it, Nathan,” he went on, gravely. 
“I have been a coward.” 

“In Heaven’s name, Rayon!” I began, but, with one 
of his imperious gestures, he silenced me. 

“For the last two nights, while you thought me sleep¬ 
ing, I have been in the other valley,” the young man said. 
“When I went there on the night I saw the woman, a 
strange thing happened. I had it in my mind to seize her 
and bring her here, where I might look at her and make 
her sing whenever it pleased me to hear her. But in the 
log-house there were many windows, and, while I stood 
in a shadow, wondering which might be the window of 
her room, I saw a figure that I took to be a man steal 
around the corner of the house. Leaving the shadow, I 
walked toward the figure. It turned, and, when I saw its 
features, I knew it was no man. It was the Prince of 
Darkness, himself.” 

“Come—Rayon, Rayon!” I muttered, protestingly. 

“It was he, and no other,” the young man said, with an 
appearance of the most unmistakable conviction. “And, 
as I looked at his grinning, triangular, black-bearded face, 
I felt that thing which, as I know now, was fear.” 

“Did he speak?” I asked, sharply. 

“Not there. For a long time—it may have been one 
minute or thirty, but I felt as if it would never end—he 
kept his gaze on mine. I could not tell whether he had 
expected me, or whether my coming had taken him by 
surprise. The evil smile on his hideous face revealed 



252 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


nothing. His awful eyes held me as a serpent’s holds a 
bird’s. Their beams burned like brands. Though he was 
smiling, no muscle of his face had moved. He stood like 
a thing of stone.” 

Thrill after thrill passed over me. Was Rayon crazed, 
or had he, indeed, seen this hideous thing A great chill 
smote me as I saw that drops of perspiration were gather¬ 
ing on the speaker’s brow. Ay, it was plain that fear had 
come to him, at last. For the first time, in many years, 
I remembered that he had had a mother. The creature I 
had labored so long to invest with divine attributes had 
woman’s blood in him, after all. He who created man in 
His own image made the first of our race All-Man. It 
was not until the first man learned to love a woman that 
there came into the world those strange hybrids who were 
to people it—men with some of the weaknesses of women, 
and women with some of those higher, and partly divine, 
attributes, with which God invested man. 

After a pause, Rayon went on: 

“At length the creature looked toward the open window 
he had been approaching when my footsteps attracted his 
attention. For a few moments, the fear passed from me, 
and, with my eyes, I tried to measure his strength. I saw 
that he was as powerful as I. I think I should have 
thrown myself upon him had not he turned again to me 
so soon. Then my will left me. He pointed to a dark, 
heavily timbered spot in the forest, just beyond the clear¬ 
ing. Like a child, I did his bidding, and, as I walked, I 
heard him following slowly. 

“At last I heard his voice. It was so different from 
yours or Glenagassett’s—so much like my own—that it 
startled me. 

“ ‘Let us stop here,’ he said. 

“I halted, and, as I turned to him, I saw his back was 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 253 


to the narrow shaft of moonlight that came through a 
rift in the mass of foliage above. Of this I was glad, 
for, if we were to talk, I would not be compelled to see 
his face. But I soon knew he had not taken me to that 
dark place to hear me speak. 

“ ‘Among these mountains there are many valleys, and 
no man is lord of all,’ he began. ‘The valley above is 
yours, to have and to hold until that man comes who shall 
cast you out. But this valley belongs to me, and I hold it 
by virtue of a stronger will than your own. When you 
leave it now, take with you the knowledge that, if you 
return to it, the old impious fool who so long has deluded 
you, will never again look on the living form of Rayon 
Demain. Now go.’ 

“As he spoke, he turned from me and moved quickly 
into the darker shadows that lay around us. But if he 
thought that I, standing in the moonlight, did not see him 
take a revolver from his pocket, he did not know that my 
eyes could penetrate far darker shades than those in which 
he stood to watch me. 

“I was unarmed, and, having felt that thing which 
comes over forest animals when men approach them, I 
knew that you had lied to me—that, after all, I was only 
a man, and would die like a deer, or bear or stricken bird 
if this strange being discharged his weapon at me. And 
so I did his bidding. I came back to this valley, and, as I 
stole hither, like a scourged hound, I heard stealthy foot¬ 
steps following me as I went. I knew they were the 
footsteps of him who had taught me how to fear. It was 
not until I entered the valley that I knew my enemy had 
turned back. 

“But, though I had walked that night as one who did 
the bidding of a master, my thoughts were not those of a 
coward. Nor were they the thoughts of one who was 


254 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


still a fool. I knew many things I had not known before. 
I knew that I was only a man—that he whom you have 
just told me was the Prince of Darkness was only a man; 
that when my enemy had spoken of 'the old impious fool’ 
who had so long deluded me, he meant you—you, whom I 
have known as Nathan—you who would have a creature 
who is capable of feeling fear believe himself to be a god/’ 

As he bent his gaze on me now, I shrank appalled from 
what I saw. His eyes were burning fires in which seemed 
to be generated the white-heated hate that was trembling 
on his face. 

The man whom I had striven to make god-like had be¬ 
come an angered demon. In the Babel I had reared the 
confusion of tongues already had entered. Fear and Hate 
had gained admission, and I, the trembling architect, felt 
as if it were too late for me to escape from the tottering 
walls before they fell. 

For several moments, confronted by that great hate, I 
doubted not that the man it had mastered would take my 
life. But his will fought back the fires, and once more a 
look of sullenness settled on his face. Then he spoke as 
quietly as he had done before. 

“And so, knowing these things, I knew that the devil¬ 
faced creature, who had triumphed over me while I was 
unarmed, would have to die—that I must kill him before 
I would be able to get the woman,” he went on. “That is 
why I went again to the log-house last night. Hour after 
hour I sat in the fringe of the forest, watching for the 
man I had gone there to slay. But he did not come. I 
would have taken the woman then, had I not believed that 
he might follow and take me unawares while I had her in 
my arms. But, whether or not he comes to-night, I will 
bring the woman here.” 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 255 


Trembling with astonishment and anger, more than 
fear, I laid a hand on one of his broad shoulders. 

“Rayon—Rayon—are you mad?” I gasped. 

Drawing back, he laughed harshly. Then, with a sudden 
movement he reached forward and, grasping me with his 
powerful hands, he raised me from the ground and held 
me out at arms’ length, shaking me as if I were a child. 

“Yes, mad—mad—mad—you old fool graybeard— 
mad!” he cried. “But I am not half so mad as you would 
make me.” 

Then, with a wild, rough laugh, he flung me to the 
ground with such force that, writhing with pain, I could 
not draw a breath. 

When, at last, quivering with physical pain and mental 
anguish, I scrambled to my feet, I saw I was alone. 

Raising my voice, I feebly called the name of Glen- 
agassett. There was no response. Where had the Indian 
gone? Had I not told him to keep Rayon always in his 
sight ? As my strength returned to me, I called louder. 

Then suddenly I remembered that when I last had seen 
the Indian, earlier in the day, he had told me that the 
women in the valley below would “leave to-night.” 

I never had known Glenagassett to break his word. 
How he designed to get the women away I did not know. 
It was a subject that I had feared to think upon, but I 
knew the next morning would not find them there. 

Glenagassett undoubtedly was in the lower valley, and 
Rayon was now well on his way thither. What would 
happen if they met? 

Into one of my pockets I slipped a revolver, then, with 
long, eager strides, I set out along the path that led to the 
valley below. 

My strides soon quickened to a run. Then, losing 
breath, I slackened my pace to a walk again. On and on 


256 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


I went—now walking, now running, until Deadwood 
Valley was well behind me. At length, however, I heard 
a sound that brought me to a halt. 

It was the sound of a pistol shot, and, as I listened, 
others broke the stillness of the night. 

I had not far to go, and, as I ran, I dropped the burden 
of my years. A mighty resolve had hardened my heart 
and steeled my sinews. As I pressed on, the revolver that 
I brought with me was in my hand. The woman who was 
the cause of all this mischief should die, even if every 
bullet that I might fire should pass through her body into 
the heart of Rayon Demain! 

I heard the shouts of men, and I knew that it was no 
one-sided battle that was on. Glenagassett had told me 
that the old woman’s two menservants were well-seasoned 
forest men of the same hard stuff of which the Adiron¬ 
dack guides are made. I had seen these from a distance, 
and I knew that neither of them was the “devil-faced” 
man Rayon had encountered. Who this stranger was 
I was unable to guess. 

Shots and shouts ceased suddenly, then I heard a 
woman’s shrieks. These encouraged me in the belief that, 
thus far, victory lay with Rayon—or Glenagassett. It 
was the triumph of Glenagassett for which I was hoping 
now. 

Suddenly, a dull, red glare began to steal through and 
over the forest trees. The odor of burning wood was in 
my nostrils. A wild, quavering, exultant cry issued from 
my throat, for I knew that the victory lay with Glen¬ 
agassett—that it was mine. 

From the log-house now there came no sound. The 
cries of the frightened women were still, and the fire glow 
became so bright that I could see distinctly the outlines of 
the boughs under which I was passing. Among the trees 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 257 


and bushes, however, the inhabitants of the forest were 
astir. Birds and squirrels had scented that which they 
dread even more than man—the smoke of an Adirondack 
forest fire. 

Suddenly I remembered that I was old. My strength 
was spent, and my heaving chest felt as if it were filled 
with molten metal. My limbs were palsied by the violence 
of the unwonted efforts I had required of them. As I 
tottered on, the revolver fell from the hand that had been 
grasping it. I stooped to pick it up. I saw it gleaming— 
gleaming at my feet. I touched it—fell, and felt the 
damp earth against my throbbing temples. 

“I will sleep,” I murmured. “All is well. Glenagassett 
has triumphed, and the woman—the woman-” 

Ay, I slept, and when I woke the sun was shining. 

So stiff was I in every joint and muscle that even the 
slightest movement gave me pain. The atmosphere was 
laden with the dank, heavy odor of burnt wood, but I saw 
no smoke. 

Rising weakly, I looked around me. I had fallen in 
the forest, near the edge of the clearing that surrounded 
the log-house. But now I saw that the log-house was 
gone. A mass of black, faintly smoking embers was all 
that was left of the picturesque little home that an honest, 
nature-loving old woman had built here in the wilderness 
beside the still smiling lake. 

But the blackened fragments of the log-house and barn 
were not all I saw. Lying in the clearing there were 
other objects, and, as these met my view, I knew they 
were human sacrifices that had been laid before the altar 
of my ambition. 

All unmindful of the pains that had been racking my 
body and limbs, I passed from one still form to another. 
The first I saw was that of poor, devoted Glenagassett. 



258 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


The two others apparently were the bodies of servants— 
one a man and the other a woman. Of Rayon, of the 
woman who had owned the log-house, and of the young 
woman who had been her guest there was no trace. 

One thing, however, was certain, and the knowledge of 
this made me a coward. Murder had been done, and 
those who sought the persons who were responsible for 
the night attack might, even now, be on their way to this 
valley. Thus, in the sunset of my wasted life, I was 
nothing more than a wretched criminal, for, though I had 
not been present when these three hapless beings were 
slain, I was as responsible for their deaths as if they had 
fallen before the revolver I had taken with me to the spot. 

Had Rayon succeeded in getting the young woman to 
the cavern, after all? Did he know that, whether he had 
done this or not, the law would seek him out and punish 
him? Should I not go to the cavern and tell him of his 
peril ? 

I shook my head. 

No, neither Rayon nor the woman was anything to me 
now. If he still lived, he was young and I was old. I 
had failed in all things. Let him work out his destiny 
alone. 

Beside the body of the manservant lay his rifle, and 
around the waist was a cartridge belt. After taking pos¬ 
session of these, I knelt down beside Glenagassett and 
took from one of his pockets the flint and steel with 
which, for many years, he had kindled all his fires. Then, 
after one long, last look toward Deadwood Valley, I 
plunged into the wilderness, nor did I emerge from it 
again until the songbirds had taken flight for the South¬ 
land, and the frost was causing the nuts to drop from the 
trees. When I returned to civilization, it was at a point 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 259 


far distant from those from which I had been wont to 
approach Deadwood Valley. 

Since the day I found Glenagassett’s body, it has been 
only in my dreams that I have heard the voice of Rayon 
Demain. But I knew that he did not die in the Adiron- 
dacks. From time to time newspapers published accounts 
of efforts that had been made to capture him. At first, he 
was sought only as “the Adirondack murderer,” but later 
other crimes in distant parts of the country were laid to 
his charge. Flow a man with such a striking face and 
figure could succeed in escaping capture, I could not 
understand. 

At length, however, newspapers reported a misadven¬ 
ture that befell him in the West, and through them I 
learned the name of one who was able to give me the 
details of the affair. That gentleman, replying to a letter 
which I wrote to him, told me a story which is little less 
remarkable than the one you have just heard from my 
lips. He is that guest who is known to you as the Duck- 
hunter, and you doubtless soon will hear from him the 
strange facts he has to tell. 

The eyes of all except two of the guests were turned 
toward the Duckhunter. While the Hypochondriacal 
Painter had been speaking, the Aeronaut had drawn her 
veil over her face again, and, from that moment, those 
who glanced toward her saw that not once was her gaze 
turned from the Gargoyle. As if conscious of this fact, 
the Gargoyle sat with his head bowed. His right arm 
rested on the table, and his right hand shielded his eyes 
and part of his face. 

There was a little pause, then, as no one seemed in¬ 
clined to speak, Westfall nodded toward the Duckhunter, 
who forthwith began his story. 


CHAPTER VIII 


ON DESERT SANDS 

Though the story you have had from the lips of the 
Hypochondriacal Painter is one of a weight of woe that 
was accumulated in the course of twenty-three long, 
wasted years, I doubt whether the mental anguish it has 
excited in the mind of its narrator is greater than that 
which, coming to me in a single hour, has blighted all 
that remains to me in life. 

My vocation is one of the most unfortunate that a 
man may follow, for it leads me among unpleasant places 
in my search for unpleasant men. In short, then, I am 
a member of the United States Secret Service. In that 
service, a specific order is as immutable as one of the laws 
of nature, and this is one reason why its members are 
chosen so carefully. It is because I, a graduate of West 
Point, and for many years an army officer, have always 
regarded an order of my chief as superior to any law of 
man or State that my position in the service is second 
only to that of the chief himself. 

My connection with this wonderful series of adven¬ 
tures, which have been described to you by guests here 
present, began with an order which came to me from my 
chief immediately after I disembarked from a vessel 
which had brought me from Japan, where I had been 
engaged on a secret and highly important mission. 

This order directed me to proceed without delay to 

260 




THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 261 


Arizona, and there assume charge of a party of our men 
who had traced to that State one William Farnley, 
whose beautiful wife had been identified as a member 
of one of the most clever and desperate gangs of coun¬ 
terfeiters that this country had ever known. While Farn¬ 
ley was not suspected of being able to produce a counter¬ 
feit note himself, there was little doubt that his wife, who 
was thoroughly infatuated with him, had found him an 
apt pupil, and that it was on these two persons that the 
other members of the gang relied for the exchange of 
bogus notes for good notes in a manner that would not 
subject them to suspicion. 

Both Farnley and his wife had been arrested in Chi¬ 
cago, but the man, who was an exceptionally powerful 
fellow, killed two of his guards with a jack-knife, and 
escaped. He was traced to Omaha, and thence the trail— 
a pretty well-defined one, for Farnley was a chap whose 
striking physical characteristics would attract attention 
anywhere—led to Arizona. There one of our men had 
overtaken the fugitive on the edge of a desert, and was 
shot, living only long enough to write and pin to his 
breast a note telling how and at whose hands he had come 
to his death. 

The man thus stricken had been an old comrade of 
mine, and as, a week later, I stood on the edge of that 
arid plain on which no tree or watercourse offered itself 
to view, I had a double motive in running down the man 
I sought. Not only would I be carrying out the orders 
of the department, but I would be avenging the death 
of my friend. 

I set out with a half-breed Indian. Beside the mules 
we rode, we had three pack animals which carried a 
light tent, forage and large skins filled with enough 
water to supply us for the next twenty hours. Our desti- 




262 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


nation was Spirit River, a stream that runs through the 
heart of the desert, and which could be reached only by 
a thirty-five mile ride across the blistering sands. It was 
to that river that I now had to follow Farnley’s trail. 
The trail was fresh, for he had set out from this very 
point only a few hours before. 

The start was made at four o’clock in the afternoon. 
It was two o’clock when I had engaged Jim, the half- 
breed, for the journey. He was sober then, but, as he 
mounted now, I saw that he had been drinking—how 
heavily I did not know, but when a man has a hot desert 
ride before him, every gill of whisky in his stomach con¬ 
stitutes a serious handicap. However, it was too late to 
protest, and too early to excite the ill-will of the only man 
who was available for the purpose for which this one had 
been employed. 

Owing to the intense heat that prevailed, our pace was 
moderate. I had allowed twelve hours for the journey. 
In order that it might be successful, it was essential that 
we arrive at Spirit River while it was dark, otherwise 
our approach over the desert scarcely could fail to be 
observed by the man whom I was planning to surprise. 

By eight o’clock we had covered sixteen miles of our 
journey, having proceeded at the rate of only four miles 
an hour. The sun had gone down and the air, while 
far from cool, was now becoming more endurable. I 
decided, therefore, to make a halt and feed and water 
the mules, giving to the animals a half an hour’s rest 
before calling on them for the increased efforts that would 
be required of them when our journey should be resumed. 

For the last hour, Jim, the half-breed, had been mut¬ 
tering incoherently. When I addressed him, however, 
he spoke rationally enough, and I thought that, by the 
time we were in our saddles again, the rest and decreas- 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 263 


ing heat would enable him to work off the ill effects of 
the liquor he had taken. 

I now directed him to picket the mules, and aid me in 
relieving them of their packs. He accomplished this 
task in sullen silence, but, while we were feeding and 
watering the animals, he began to address me in an 
Indian jargon which I was unable to understand. As 
I watched him, he gesticulated violently, and several times 
pointed in the direction of the unseen river. 

All my efforts to get the man to speak rationally were 
vain, so, with one hand on my holster, I shrugged my 
shoulders resignedly and continued to keep him under 
observation. 

At length, when the packs were replaced on the mules, 
and we were ready to mount again, I saw his hand move 
to his revolver. I quickly drew mine—aimed and pulled 
the trigger. 

The hammer fell on an empty chamber. The half- 
breed, with his weapon pointed at my breast, laughed 
tauntingly, but held his fire. 

Again I pressed my trigger, and again the hammer 
clicked. 

‘‘One mule—you; four mule—Jim.” 

As the half-breed spoke, I knew that, while we had 
been making preparation for our journey, he had with¬ 
drawn the shells from my revolver. To offer resistance 
to his will now meant certain death to me. Crazed as 
he might be, he still was sufficiently master of himself to 
shoot straight, for the hand that held his weapon was 
as steady as a boulder on a valley bottom. 

He bade me cast off my belt and move away two hun¬ 
dred paces, and I did so. I felt no fear of death, but it 
was not death the Service had sent me out here to find; 
it was a man. I saw I must bide my time. 


264 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


True to his threat, the mongrel devil left my mule 
and rode off with the others. When he was gone, I 
mounted. I was unarmed now, so I saw that nothing 
could be gained by riding off after the half-breed, who, 
doubtless, had friends near. Accordingly, unarmed as I 
was, I turned the head of my mule toward the distant, 
unseen river, and, guided by the little compass which I 
always carry with me, I resumed my quest alone. 

I found the going easier than I had expected, and was 
fortunate in having under me one of the sturdiest animals 
it ever had fallen to my lot to ride. The moon was three- 
quarters full, and, though a haze overhung the desert, 
the light was fairly good. Shortly after midnight a 
faint, silvery line ahead of me gave me to understand 
that a few minutes more would find me at Spirit River. 

At length, I slipped from my saddle and stood on the 
bank of a broad, shallow stream that was filled with 
rocks around which the sluggish tide made scarcely a 
ripple. Along each bank extended a fringe of dwarf 
trees. It was to one of these trees that I hitched my 
mule, after I and the beast had drunk our fill from the 
river. 

Near the spot at which I had dismounted was a 
curious burrow which consisted of a hole scooped in the 
sandy bank and roofed with the trunk and branches of 
small trees over which had been spread a layer of stones 
and river mud. Near the door of this little dug-out I 
saw a pick and shovel and a prospector’s pan. But there 
was something more, and, as I looked at it, a slight feel¬ 
ing of creepiness stole over me. 

A few feet distant from the entrance to the burrow, 
and lying at full length on the ground, was the body of 
a man. 

A mere glance at the swollen face convinced me that 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 265 


this was not the fugitive I sought. It was the body of a 
man of middle age, and there was little doubt in my mind 
that he was the prospector who had occupied this rudely 
constructed dwelling. On his breast was pinned a piece 
of soiled paper. Removing this, I entered the hut and 
struck a match. Then I saw that on the paper were 
written the following words: 

Dide on or bout 5 August Ime Jack Cline and my wife an kids 
is Mary Cline, Conedale Ohio broke leg in shaf and it swel offul. 
Mule croked las week so will I. Bury me desent if you kin. Looks 
like theres dust hereabut but I aint struck mutch yet.. So long. 

As I examined the body, I was convinced that the poor 
fellow had died of gangrene the day before. Picking 
up a shovel that was near the entrance to the hut, I dug 
a shallow grave. To this I was dragging the body when 
a sudden, rattling sound near me caused me to step quickly 
aside. I was too late, however. Before I was able to 
see the thing that threatened me, a rattlesnake had buried 
its fangs in the outer side of the calf of my left leg. 

I killed the reptile, then, glancing at the grave I had 
dug, I muttered: 

“Well, I suppose I’d better make it big enough for 
two.” 

With my handkerchief and a stick I made a tourniquet 
above the wound. I was tightening this when I heard 
a voice ask, quickly: 

“What are you doing there?” 

I turned deliberately, and I gave no start or other sign 
of recognition as I saw that he who stood near me, with 
a revolver in his hand, was the man I had gone out to 
the desert to take, dead or alive. 

“A rattler has just bitten me,” I explained, as quietly 
as the other had asked the question. 


266 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


“The devil!” Farnley muttered, in a sympathetic voice. 
“What are you doing for it?” 

“Holding off the end a little while,” I replied. “That’s 
all a fellow can do under the circumstances.” 

“You fool, why don’t you suck out the poison?” Farn¬ 
ley asked, impatiently, as he returned his revolver to his 
belt. 

“I can’t reach it,” I answered. 

“Who’s that man—the dead one?” Farnley demanded, 
suddenly. 

“My partner—Jack Cline. We were prospecting here. 
His mule fell in the desert, and he broke his leg. 
Gangrene got him and he’s all in now. I brought him 
here on my mule, and was burying him when I was 
bitten.” 

“You were prospecting for gold?” 

“Yes,” I answered. 

Farnley was now on his knees beside me. In a few 
moments he had rolled up the left leg of my trousers and 
was pressing his lips to the wound. 

For five minutes he worked zealously, sucking out the 
poison. From one of his pockets he took a large flask 
of whisky and placed it in my hands. 

“Drink it all,” he said, as he tightened the tourniquet. 

As I gulped down the liquor, he added, cheerfully: 

“You’ll be all right now, my man. Have you any 
coffee in your shack?” 

“I’ll see,” I said, and started to rise. 

“Stop!” he exclaimed. “I’ll go.” 

He found it, too, and, while he was preparing the 
steaming draught, I watched him moodily. I had been 
told that the fugitive I had been assigned to find was 
characterized by remarkable personal attractions, but, 
despite this information, I was astonished by the man I 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 267 


saw. Never had I gazed on human features that were so 
splendidly moulded or which expressed such a degree of 
intelligence and self-possession. Though his figure was 
that of a magnificently developed athlete, his movements 
were as graceful as those of a girl. Nature had endowed 
me well with strength, but, as I watched Farnley now, 
I knew that in a struggle I would be little more than a 
child in his hands. 

Never before had I been racked by so many conflicting 
emotions. In the aspect of the man was something that 
made me shudder. While he was speaking to me, a 
peculiar charm seemed to invest his speech and move¬ 
ments, but, as he bent over the fire that he kindled, there 
crept over his features a gloomy, sinister expression, and 
once he frowned darkly as he glanced in my direction. 

At the time this handsome murderer had come upon 
me, undoubtedly I was in the grip of death. Though he 
had given my life back to me, that life belonged, as it 
had done for twenty years, to the Service, and, as I sat 
there, I knew that when the Service once gets after a 
man it is bound to land him sooner or later. I knew, too, 
that this man’s crimes meant death to him. I might let 
him go now, but he would be a fugitive until the in¬ 
evitable end when he would expiate on the gallows the 
death of my old comrade. 

At length, absorbed in his preparations for supper, 
Farnley laid aside the belt to which his revolver was at¬ 
tached. I watched it with fascinated eyes. Once more 
he went into the hut—to get forks and sugar. When he 
came out I was looking at him from over the barrel of 
his revolver. 

His handsome face grew as dark as a thunder cloud. 

“What the devil is all this?” he growled. 

“It means that I, Roger Canbeck, am a Secret Service 


268 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


officer, and that I hereby arrest you, William Farnley, 
on three charges of murder,” I replied. 

For several moments he gazed at me steadily, then he 
looked thoughtfully at the ground. 

“Well, what is it you want me to do?” he asked. 

“You must ride with me to-night across the desert.” 

He broke into a laugh—so light and boyish that it 
startled me. 

“No, no—not that,” he said. “It is only in his own 
way that Rayon Demain now plays the fool. The time 
is passed when others may direct him.” 

As he finished speaking, he leaped toward me. My 
finger trembled on the trigger, but I felt I could not press 
it. A moment later, a fork in the hand of my adversary 
was thrust into one of my eyes. I staggered back, and 
as he reached to seize the revolver from my grasp, I drew 
the trigger. Groping at his bosom, he slowly retreated a 
couple of paces, then, with a groan, he fell. 

Racked with pain, I looked down on him with the 
single eye that remained to me. I saw him as through 
a mist. He was lying very still, but, by the movements 
of his eyelids, I knew that the strange, warped soul had 
not yet forsaken its splendid tenement. As I gazed across 
the moonlighted desert, the revolver fell from my nerve¬ 
less, trembling hand. The venom which those fast¬ 
whitening lips had sucked from my flesh was far less 
deadly than that which my stern sense of duty had in¬ 
jected into my soul. The honor of the service had been 
vindicated, the death of my comrade had been avenged, 
but I knew that from that hour I would be unable to 
wash the stain of ingratitude from the life which this 
dying man had given to me. 

As my gaze fell to him again, I saw he was looking 
at me, and was smiling feebly. 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 269 


“All things do not happen in the manner that the 
prophets have written,” he said, “and so you have come 
too late to keep from Rayon Demain the knowledge that 
it is better to be a sinful man than a proud, arrogant 
and unloving god. There was a time when an old man 
deceived me by causing me to believe that one day I 
would possess the attributes of divinity—I, who would 
never win the mastery of my own soul. But the love 
of woman I have won—that is all, and it has been enough. 
And so, you see, wisdom came to Rayon Demain at last, 
for, like the butterflies, he lived his season among Life’s 
flowers, and you shall know that when he died he had 
learned that even evil women are not devils, and that, 
despite old men’s teachings, there is good in everything.” 

Scarcely conscious of the action, I knelt beside him. 
With a little laugh, he held out a hand to me. Sobbing 
like a child, I took it. 

“You are sorry,” he said, speaking now with an effort. 
“But—it is all right, after all. The desert was all that 
was left to me; there is more for you, and, sometimes, 
when a woman’s eyes grow bright while you are speak¬ 
ing to her, think kindly of him who gave back your life 
beside that grave in which you will lay me now.” 

“Why did you resist me?” I whispered, hoarsely. 

“Because, like all other men I have ever known, you 
stood in my light. It was only by resistance that I earned 
my brief day of sunshine. I am content.” 

With a little sigh, he turned his head. His eyes closed, 
and I knew that all was ended—that for Rayon Demain 
the bright sun would rise no more. 

It was not until twilight fell again that I left the 
little green belt in the desert. I buried the two bodies 
side by side, but, as I set out on my return journey, there 
seemed to ride beside me one whose glorious eyes, black 


270 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


curling hair and lordly figure have haunted me from the 
hour I felt a cold hand fall from mine as I knelt on one 
of the dark banks of Spirit River. 

As the one-eyed Duckhunter finished speaking, a low 
groan escaped the lips of the Hypochondriacal Painter, 
and the Aeronaut hid her face in her hands. For several 
moments the silence was unbroken. Then, in rasping 
accents, the Nervous Physician said, abruptly: 

“We will hear from the Gargoyle now, I suppose.” 

Westfall nodded gloomily. 

“Yes, my friends, if that is your pleasure,” he 
answered, with a sigh. 

The Sentimental Gargoyle lowered the hand on which 
he had been leaning, and which had concealed his eyes 
while the Duckhunter was speaking. Then, in a soft, 
penetrating voice he began: 


CHAPTER IX 


THE QUEST OF THE BEAUTIFUL 

It is unfortunate that, with a physical appearance so 
repellent that it is wont to inspire dislike before others 
of my attributes are known, I should be further handi¬ 
capped at the beginning of my narrative by the fact that 
every reference made to me by those whose stories have 
preceded mine has seemed to invest me with a malevolent 
influence. 

Profoundly interested as I have been in the adventures 
which we have heard described on the Barge of Haunted 
Lives, you readily will understand that it was inevitable 
that the story of the Hypochondriacal Painter should 
impress me most, because of its exposition of the theory 
that human features owe their contour to the quality and 
activity of the human mind. Though the Painter, dedi¬ 
cating all those years to its demonstration, appears to 
have been the first to attempt to endow man with the 
physical attributes of divinity, the theory long has been 
accepted as a fact by physiognomists. 

It does not require the discernment of a carefully trained 
observer to find in the portraits of famous men the ex¬ 
pression of those qualities which made their work dis¬ 
tinctive. How strangely like, in their suggestiveness of 
that mental power that finds expression in analysis, are 
the features of Michelangelo and Auguste Rodin! Who 
would look upon the pictures we have of Newton, Wil¬ 
liam Blake and Swedenborg without knowing they were 

271 


272 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


ever peering into the rumbling depths or up at the mist- 
enshrouded altitudes of the infinite? Who would find 
aught but the spirit of a conqueror behind the visages 
of Caesar, William of Normandy, Richard I, Peter the 
Great and Napoleon? In the faces of Scott, Byron, 
Tennyson, Mozart, Chopin and Beethoven how simple 
it is for us to see and identify their temperamental dif¬ 
ferences in the fields of poetry and music, but when we 
come to look upon those of Carlyle and Schopenhauer 
can we be blind to that which they express—that hope¬ 
lessness which comes to men, who, having sunk their 
ideals in the turbid current of materialism, recognize only 
the follies and sorrows of our world? 

When we think upon all this, it would seem, my friends, 
that it is a law of Nature that physical and mental grace 
must go hand in hand, and, indeed, careful observation 
will assure us that, so far as men are concerned, physi¬ 
ognomy, in nine cases out of ten, is a fairly true index 
of character. As indicative of feminine qualities, how¬ 
ever, it means little, for well we know that the fairest 
women often are the most faithless, unreasoning and 
immoral. And Nature, itself, is as changing in its moods 
as is a woman. Ever mocking its own masterpieces, it 
creates only that it may destroy. At times it seems to 
exult over its own contradictions. It makes jests of its 
own laws, which men have been wont to regard as im¬ 
mutable. Its sweetest songs come from the throats of 
the most insignificant birds. Its rainbows are the prod¬ 
ucts of storms. Its precious stones are found embedded 
in hoary rocks, which men must blast with gunpowder 
in order that sunlight may reveal the beauty of the gems. 
Less often to the stately mansions of the rich than to 
the wretched hovels of the poor does genius come to 
breathe her fire into the soul of the youth who is destined 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 273 


to yield to men some of the treasured knowledge of 
the gods. 

Shakespeare has said “Sweet are the uses of adversity, 
which, like a toad, ugly and venomous, hath yet a precious 
jewel in its head.” And, my friends, though Nature, in 
a mischievous mood, did fashion me in a mould that 
made me scarcely less repulsive than adversity or a toad, 
it gave to me such a jewel as that of which Shakespeare 
spoke. It is because of my possession of this, as you 
shall see, that the world has seemed very fair to me, and 
my life well worth the living. 

Despite the fact that my grotesque face has caused me 
to be regarded as a monstrosity, my father and mother 
were noted for their physical graces. Why I should have 
come into the world with such a terrible visage not even 
men of science have been able to understand. But, from 
the moment of my birth, in a small city in France, my 
mother, fond as she was of her other children, found 
the sight of me so hateful that she scarcely could be 
brought to look upon me. 

Before I was a year old I was committed to the care 
of a peasant and his wife, who lived many miles from 
the chateau in which I was born. I remained there for 
the first eight years of my life, then I was sent to a 
school near Tours. There the ridicule to which I was 
subjected by reason of my grotesque appearance became 
so unbearable that I fled. I soon was overtaken, how¬ 
ever, and my parents caused a tutor and his wife to be 
installed in a cottage that was situated in the heart of an 
old French forest. There I remained until I was twenty 
years of age. Then, for the first time in many years, 
I saw my father. He stayed with me only a few min¬ 
utes, during which time my future was discussed. My 
father told me that if I would consent to assume the 


274 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


name of Leon Grenault, and never reveal my relationship 
with my family, I would receive an income of ten thou¬ 
sand dollars a year. I accepted the condition, and, bid¬ 
ding farewell to my kind old tutor and his wife, I set 
out for Italy. Since then I have been an indefatigable 
traveller, but not until recently did I make my first visit 
to the United States. 

I have said that, in fashioning me so unkindly, Nature 
gave to me something that was akin to the mythical jewel 
in the head of the repulsive toad. It is a sense of beauty. 
Since my early childhood I have been an inordinate lover 
of all that is beautiful. With me the search for the most 
beautiful faces, landscapes, flowers, gems, porcelains, 
pictures and poems has constituted the dominant purpose 
of my life. I will not pause to tell you to what absurd 
lengths my searches often took me, and what insupport¬ 
able burdens of ridicule they have laid on my shoulders. 
There was nothing that was beautiful that did not charm 
me. There were many beautiful things for which I 
gladly would have sacrificed my life, merely to look upon. 

With features so forbidding that all human beings 
shrink from me instinctively, I move among things of 
earth as the fallen angel moved among the shades of 
Paradise. The angel knew the reason of his fall, but 
what heinous sin I committed in some former period of 
existence, and for which I should be punished so cruelly, 
I know not. The sight of human happiness thrills me 
with sympathetic pleasure, while the suffering and sor¬ 
rows of others drive me, sometimes, almost to madness, 
and I shrink from them as did Mephistopheles from the 
upraised cross. Incapable of inspiring affection in the 
breast of man, woman or child, it has seemed to me that 
I have craved love more than any creature of the earth. 
Only in my dreams does love come to me—from my 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 275 


mother, from laughing children and—another. When 
I wake it is to seek things that are beautiful. 

And it was in this quest for the beautiful that I found 
myself one day in Constantinople. It matters not to 
others what particular object it was that led me there, 
but, one day, while I was sitting in my room in a hotel, 
I was informed that Glyncamp, an American mindreader, 
had called to see me. As no man or woman ever before 
had expressed a desire to see me privately on other than 
business matters my surprise took the form of curiosity. 
Accordingly, I sent word to Glyncamp that I would see 
him. 

My visitor greeted me cordially as he entered the room, 
and, frankly and without embarassment, he told me that, 
having observed me as I was passing along a street, he 
had been so impressed by my strange physical appearance 
that he desired to learn something of my mental qualities. 
I took the explanation in good part, and from that hour 
the remarkable American and I were friends. His vast 
store of learning filled me with even more wonder than 
did that mysterious power which enabled him to read 
the thoughts of human minds. 

One day, while we were chatting together, Glyncamp 
asked me what was the dominant purpose of my life. 
I replied: 

“When I have seen the most handsome man, the most 
beautiful woman and the most wonderful gem that the 
earth now holds, I shall die content.” 

Glyncamp laughed quietly. 

“In that case you may prepare to die within the next 
two years, for I think I shall then be in a position to show 
all these to you,” he said. 

I looked at him incredulously. 

“You have seen them?” I asked wondering. 


276 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


“I have seen the woman,” he replied, “and I know 
where, hidden in a wonderful valley, the man may be 
found—a man so handsome that he is said to believe him¬ 
self a god. But the gem of which I speak, I have not 
seen. It soon will be mine, however.” 

“How did you come by this knowledge?” I asked. 

The American looked at me sharply. 

“That, my friend, is my affair,” he answered, curtly. 

Perceiving that I had been indiscreet, I apologized for 
the rudeness of my question. It pleased him to make light 
of the matter, however; then, suddenly, a look of gravity 
overspread his features. 

“Would you take a journey to see this wonderful 
man?” he asked. 

“I would travel around the world to see such a man,” 
I replied enthusiastically. 

“You would go to the United States.” 

“Yes.” 

“And report to me concerning what you saw ?” 

“Yes, yes.” 

He told me, then, that once, while he was testing his 
skill on an old painter, who had ridiculed his pretensions, 
he had learned his secret. 

“Follow Nathan Bonfield when he goes into a great 
range of mountains, and he will lead you to the place 
where he guards his secret so jealously,” Glyncamp ex¬ 
plained. “But in no circumstances must Bonfield know 
that he is followed. If he were to discover you, it is 
more than probable that you would meet with a serious 
misadventure. Take with you a camera, and if you 
return to me with photographs of this remarkable young 
man, I will give to you the opportunity of seeing the most 
beautiful young woman who is on our earth to-day.” 

I accepted the conditions, and two days later I was on 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 277 


my way to the United States. Greatly to my surprise, 
Glyncamp offered to pay the expenses of my journey in 
the event of my proving successful in my quest. 

Upon arriving in the United States, I had considerable 
difficulty in locating the strange old artist, but, at last, I 
succeeded in discovering his haunts. Then I found the 
house in which he had his room. At length came a day 
when, having followed him, as I had done on several 
former occasions, I saw him enter the Grand Central 
Station. He was about to travel without luggage. So 
would I. 

I boarded the train without a ticket, for, as yet, I had 
not the slightest idea what my destination was to be. I 
took a seat behind the car which Bonfield had entered, and 
it was while I was looking out of the window to assure 
myself that the painter was not leaving the car that I 
beheld, for the first time, the young woman whose beauty 
was destined to have such an important influence on my 
life. She, too, boarded the train—she and her escort 
entering the second car ahead of me. 

I was now confronted by the greatest dilemma I ever 
had faced in my life. Should I follow the painter or the 
young woman? 

I decided to follow the woman. 

In the course of that long journey to the mountains I 
saw the young woman four times. Twice she and her 
escort left the train and took another. I, unobserved, did 
likewise, and on each occasion I was amazed to find that 
the painter made similar changes. 

At last the young woman and the man who was with 
her alighted at a way station. I saw that buckboards were 
in waiting to take them and their luggage away, and, 
satisfied that I would have little difficulty in tracing them 
in the event of my return in the course of twenty-four 


278 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


hours, I remained on the train to follow the painter. At 
the next station he, too, alighted. Here no vehicle of any 
description was in waiting, and from Bonfield’s actions it 
soon became apparent that he expected none. Still wear¬ 
ing the same garments in which he had left New York, 
he entered the wilderness with all the assurance of a 
sturdy mountaineer. Once I saw him halt to fashion a 
stout stick into a staff, then, with this in his hands, he 
continued on his way. 

Hour after hour I followed him, passing through one 
valley after another. Twice or thrice he turned to look 
behind him, but I kept myself concealed from his view. 

At last, however, more than an hour after the evening 
shadows began to fall, we entered that strange mountain 
fastness that has been described to you—Deadwood 
Valley—and I knew by the action of the old painter that 
our journey was well-nigh done. Removing his hat, he 
wiped his forehead, then, placing his fingers to his mouth, 
he emitted a series of long, shrill whistles. These evoked 
from the other end of the valley sounds which were so 
similar that I fancied at first that they were only echoes 
of those I had heard before. The old man now resumed 
his journey with quickened steps. As I made my way 
along the narrow path and among the thick brush, I 
started as, moving around a great boulder that lay at the 
foot of the mountainside, I found myself within thirty 
paces of him. He was standing still, and it was apparent 
that he had decided to await there the coming of the man 
who had answered his signals. Moving stealthily nearer, 
I crouched down among the stones. 

I had not long to wait, for scarcely five minutes passed 
before I heard the sounds of low voices, the swishing of 
branches and the snapping of twigs. Then, overcome by 
wonder and delight, I half rose and was about to utter an 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 279 


expression of admiration when I realized my danger and 
restrained my emotions. 

The mysterious young man whom I had come so many 
thousand miles to see was before me. Glyncamp was 
right. There could not have been a more splendid type of 
manhood in all the world! 

If I had expected to see any demonstration of affection 
between this remarkable young man and the patriarch who 
had made this long journey to see him, I was disappointed. 
The painter saluted the younger man with marked re¬ 
spect. The intelligent features of the newcomer lightened 
for a moment, but neither by a bow nor the offer of a 
hand did he bid the graybeard welcome. 

“I had not expected you so soon, Nathan,” was all he 
said. 

Then, as the two walked off together, I saw that an 
Indian was following them. At last they came to the 
door of a cavern through which they passed from my 
view. 

Such, then, was my first view of Rayon Demain. 

Having carefully noted the entrance to the cavern, and 
taken a view of the valley in order that I might carry 
certain landmarks in my mind, I set out again for the 
railroad. I was in no danger of losing my way, for it lay 
along a watercourse for a considerable distance, and, 
while I had been following the painter, I carefully noted 
in a memoranda book the position of landmarks that 
would serve for my future guidance. 

By this time night had closed in on the wilderness, and, 
after going a little way, I lost the narrow path. I spent 
several minutes seeking it and, when I found it, I decided 
to wait until moonrise before proceeding further. 

But by the time the moon rose I altered my purpose. 
Though I came to the mountains without luggage, I had 


280 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


with me a pocket camera. I now decided that I would 
spend the following day in this valley and accomplish the 
purpose that had led me thither, before I undertook the 
task of finding the beautiful young woman I had seen on 
the train. I reflected that people do not make long 
journeys to mountainous districts to remain for only a 
few days, and there was little doubt that I would be as 
well able to trace the young woman two days hence as I 
would be to-morrow. 

Accordingly, when the light of the moon streamed into 
the valley, I approached the cavern cautiously, then passed 
it and made my way along the shore of the lake to where 
the waters narrowed. 

Heaven guided my steps that night, for, fatigued as I 
was, I walked on and on, vainly seeking something that 
would afford me shelter. And so, at last, I came to 
another valley. 

Ah, how can I describe the sensations that overcame 
me as I beheld that vast moonlighted Paradise ? But one 
who was quite as appreciative as I, and far more eloquent, 
has pictured its glories to you, so I will not weary you 
with my impressions. The names of these two valleys 
were, of course, unknown to me, so I called one the Valley 
of the Perfect Man, and the other the Valley of the 
Garden. 

For nearly an hour, as I gazed upon the magnificent 
prospect that lay before me, I forgot my fatigue, and the 
very thought of sleep in the presence of so much beauty 
seemed impious. On and on I walked along the shore, 
now and then crossing, on stepping stones, little brooks 
whose murmurs seemed to be hymned eulogies of the love¬ 
liness around me. 

At length, however, I stopped abruptly. Stealing softly 
to me through the forest-odored air came the sweet notes 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 281 


of one of Chopin’s nocturnes. For two or three minutes 
they held me spellbound, then all was still. My heart was 
beating wildly. Had I been dreaming? Had the notes 
I heard been the sighing of the nightwinds and the singing 
of the brooks that had echoed in the composer’s fancy in 
the hour in which he had committed to paper that sweet, 
spirit-haunting air? 

But, as I strode quickly onward, I knew that my senses 
had not deceived me. Before me rose the dark, shadowy 
outlines of a house that was constructed of roughly hewn 
forest logs. Glints of lamplight around the lowered 
shades indicated that within those walls were persons, 
happier than I, who had been watching the musician while 
the notes were stealing from the piano to where I stood 
listening in the forest. 

For several minutes I halted and looked around me. I 
saw a stable and other outbuildings in the clearing, and, 
faintly outlined on the lake shore, were several small 
boats. Then, retreating into the woodland shadows, I 
listened expectantly. But from the house there came no 
sound. At last the glints of lights disappeared from the 
windows, and I knew that the occupants of the house had 
retired for the night. 

In the forest fringe, just beyond the clearing, was a 
large, three-walled shed in which were standing several 
pieces of farm machinery and a covered wagon. On the 
seat of the wagon was a folded blanket. Here was the 
shelter I sought. 

The open front of the shed faced the lake, and, having 
unfolded the blanket, I was preparing to wrap it around 
me and lie down on the bottom of the wagon, when I 
turned for a last look at the beautiful moonlit waters. 

Once more I was on the point of turning away from 
the enchanting scene when something moving on the lake 


282 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


caught my eye. Then I saw it was a canoe which was 
slowly approaching the beach. Crouching low in the 
wagon, I watched the little craft curiously. I saw it held 
only one person. 

As the bow of the canoe touched the shore, its occupant 
leaped out and drew the boat up on the beach. This done, 
he stole noiselessly toward the house. 

It was the Indian I had seen in the Valley of the Perfect 
Man! 

Moving stealthily toward the darkened log-house, he 
tried the door. I saw him retreat from this, and then 
disappear in the shadow. Two or three minutes passed 
before he reappeared. Now he strode quickly to where 
he had left his canoe on the beach. Thrusting this back 
into the water, he leaped lightly aboard and seized his 
paddle. A few moments later boat and boatman had dis¬ 
appeared in the shadow cast over the water by a thick 
cluster of trees. So noiseless and stealthy had been his 
movements that, at times, one might have fancied that he 
was nothing more than the shadow of some great bird 
flying overhead. 

This mysterious visit excited within me a feeling of 
uneasiness, and I watched for nearly half an hour longer, 
then, yielding at last to the fatigue of the day, I folded 
the blanket around me, and, lying down on the wagon 
floor, I slept. 

I was awake at dawn, and, fearing discovery, I care¬ 
fully refolded the blanket, and, after returning it to the 
seat on which I had found it, I left the shed. A healthy 
appetite was now beginning to assert itself, but curiosity 
still held me to the place. I was resolved to see something 
of the occupants of the log-house before I turned my back 
upon it, for I knew that it was no ordinary musician 
whose hands had swept those piano keys while the notes 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 283 


of that wonderful nocturne were floating out to mingle 
with the forest airs. The thought had come to me that, 
perhaps, here I would find the woman I sought. Accord¬ 
ingly, I took my station in a leafy covert and waited. 

My patience was at length rewarded. Something white 
appeared suddenly between the curtains of an open 
window. My blood leaped exultantly in my veins, and 
my eyes were almost dazzled by the fairest sight they ever 
had looked upon. 

Before me, clad in the snowy, lace-trimmed gown that 
she had worn during the night, was the young woman 
whose beauty had enchanted me on the day before. The 
darkness of the night still lingered in the great, luxuriant 
mass of flowing hair, but on her face and in her eyes 
were reflected all the glowing splendors of the dawn. 
And, as I watched her, the house in which she stood as¬ 
sumed the aspect of a shrine around which sweet odors, 
whispering winds and the feathered singers of the forest 
were paying homage to their divinity. 

Was Glyncamp wrong when he told me that he had 
seen the most beautiful woman in the world? Or was it 
possible that he indeed had seen the woman on whom I 
was gazing now? 

For two or three minutes the fair creature stood at 
the window, looking at forest, lake and turquoise sky. 
Then she disappeared, and I, overwhelmed and intoxi¬ 
cated by her wondrous beauty, rose, turned and went 
staggering like a drunkard through the forest. 

This, then, was the beginning of that love which so 
suddenly came to me and lighted all the candles in the 
gloomy hall of my life. Before, like a prisoner in a cell, 
I had been groping at each beautiful ray that had filtered 
in through my barred windows, but now—now I was 


284 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


blinded by an effulgence that was more dazzling than the 
noonday sun. 

On and on I strode until I came to a mountain trail, 
which, it was plain, led from the log-house in the Valley 
of the Garden. I had no thought of hunger now, and I 
travelled quickly, only pausing occasionally to drink at 
some laughing mountain brook. Leaving the log-house 
further and further behind me, I did not doubt that the 
trail I was following would bring me at last to the station 
at which I had seen the young woman and her escort 
alight from the train the preceding day. 

My surmise proved to be correct, but, as I drew near 
the little village in which the station was situated, I hesi¬ 
tated. My face always had inspired fear and distrust 
among country people, and I asked myself whether it was 
wise for me to show myself at a place to which occupants 
of the log-house must come for their supplies. I did not 
want it known that there was a man of my appearance in 
the neighborhood, for, in such circumstances, all my 
movements would be carefully watched, and, without 
doubt, false stories concerning me would be circulated by 
superstitious persons who would suspect that I was none 
other than the devil himself. 

I remembered that the next mountain hamlet was about 
ten miles further down the railway line, so, skirting the 
little village, I directed my steps to the station below. 

Arriving at last at my destination, I disregarded the 
expressions of horror on the faces of the persons I met, 
and, after enjoying a hearty meal, I purchased a couple of 
mules, a kit of tools, firearms, fishing tackle, a compass 
and enough provisions to last me for a week. These 
purchases I made into stout packs and placed on the 
mules, then, with a dull-looking Swedish boy who, for a 
generous sum, found it possible to forgive the physical 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 285 


abnormalities of his new master, I followed a trail which, 
for a considerable distance, ran parallel with the railway. 

By nightfall I had found a site for my camp—in the 
wilderness about a mile north of the log-house, and a half 
a mile from the path that led from the Valley of the 
Perfect Man to the Valley of the Garden. 

Carl, my boy, soon learned that I was not nearly so bad 
as Nature had painted me, and, after that difficulty was 
overcome, it was not long before I felt that I had his 
confidence. 

A shack soon was constructed, but the first night the 
boy occupied it alone. Directing my steps again to the 
log-house, I took a station in the covert from which I had 
observed the beautiful stranger in the morning. 

The action of the Indian on the night before had excited 
my distrust, and now that I knew whose safety might be 
menaced by anyone who had evil designs on the house or 
its occupants, I resolved to watch the place while it was 
otherwise unguarded. 

The night passed without adventure, but, when morn¬ 
ing dawned, I saw the young woman appear again at the 
window as I had seen her before. Now, however, I re¬ 
mained in my place of concealment, and later I saw her, 
clad in a dainty morning dress, step out into the clearing. 
I watched her while one of the menservants taught her 
how to handle the paddle of a canoe. In the afternoon I 
followed her as she walked along the beach or through the 
leafy aisles of the forest. But the man who had come 
with her to the mountains I did not see, and I wondered 
whether he was her brother or her husband. 

Once I heard an elderly woman call to her—addressing 
her as “Paula.” The servants addressed her as “Miss.” 
But why should I, who was so afflicted with the most 


286 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


hideous human features in all the world, exult to find 
that she still was unwed? 

Night after night I kept vigil near the log-house, and 
once, waxing bold, I pinned some verses to one of her 
windows. Ah, how can I describe the sensations that 
overwhelmed me when I saw her take them from the 
envelope—when a rush of color came to her face, and a 
bright, wondering light slowly kindled in her eyes. Then, 
as I watched her closely, I saw she was not offended, and 
I wondered who it was she thought had written the lines. 

I saw her leave the house a little more than an hour 
afterward, and enter her canoe, and my gaze followed 
her as, in the gleaming little craft, she glided over the 
waters of the lake. But when the canoe was headed for 
the northern shore my heart grew cold. Did she suspect 
the mystery that lurked amid the awe-inspiring shades of 
the Valley of the Perfect Man? 

Then, with a rapidly beating heart, I ran along the 
shore, and, as I ran, I saw the canoe enter the stream that 
flowed through the mountain pass. 

Before I succeeded in getting to this stream the storm 
broke. Strong as I am physically, the vigor of this 
baffled me. Blinded by lightning, battered by rain, 
deafened by thunder, and blocked by brooks, which, over¬ 
flowing their banks, had become fiercely whirling torrents, 
my strength was spent at last, and I sought refuge between 
two rocks under a widespreading tree. 

When the storm subsided, I saw two men leave the 
log-house and put out in a boat. That these were men- 
servants starting in search for the young woman was 
plain. The water was still too rough for the task they 
had undertaken, however, and before the boat was a 
hundred yards from the shore it was overturned. The 
men succeeded in swimming ashore. 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 287 


I now continued on my way to the upper valley, and, 
in time, I arrived at the mountain pass. There I beheld 
the object of my search, but, loth to see her recoil from 
me, I did not reveal myself to her eyes. I resolved to 
watch her until the men from the log-house should succeed 
in getting to her. 

At length, when twilight fell, I saw her move forward. 
Then, in the most wonderful voice I had ever heard, she 
sang to a beautiful air the words of the verses I had 
pinned to her window curtain in the morning, and I knew 
that it was to me—the unknown writer—that she sang. 

And now, for the first time, the idea came to me that 
perhaps, after all, I might devise some means of making 
this wonderful woman mine—that we might love in spirit, 
as the angels love. I knew, however, that this would be 
impossible if she were to see me. 

Scarcely had this thought taken form in my mind when 
I observed that the mysterious young man of the upper 
valley had approached and was watching the singer. 

All of the strange words and scenes which followed 
were heard and witnessed by me. When the young 
woman was again alone, I spoke to her, and, unseen, I 
took her across the lake in the manner she has related. 

The next day I left the valley behind me and secured 
the services of a clergyman who lived in a distant town. 
In the night shadows of the wilderness, Paula Trevison 
became my wife. 

I was resolved that, from that moment, only in spirit 
should we meet. I would write to her and talk with her 
at times when she would be unable to see me. Taking 
advantage of her Eastern superstitions, I would make her 
believe that I was a spirit bridegroom. 

Thus far all had gone well, but, in less than five minutes 
after the conclusion of the ceremony, my dream fabric 


288 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


began to totter. My boy had just set off on muleback 
with the clergyman, when, from the direction of the log- 
house came the sounds of firearms. My heart seemed to 
leap to my throat, and a great fear held me spellbound. 
Then, from the brushwood rushed the figure of a man. 
For only a moment did I see his face in the moonlight. 

It was Rayon Demain! 

I hurried after him, and thus came to the log-house. 

Many of the incidents that followed already have been 
described to you. Rayon acted like a frenzied demon. I 
dragged from the burning log-house the woman he had 
hurled into it, and I smote him down when he attacked 
the young woman who was now my wife. But those 
whom I served shrank from me appalled. Among them 
I had no friend. Then Rayon and I met for a second 
time. We grappled and fought—Hyperion with a satyr, 
and the satyr once more triumphed. Rayon again lay at 
my feet. I could have killed him then, but who was I 
that I should reduce to senseless dust that masterpiece of 
nature ? 

While I hesitated, Rayon rose suddenly to one of his 
elbows. Then he levelled a revolver at me, and fired. 
The ball entered my chest, and I fell. 

I did not lose consciousness, but a great numbness over¬ 
spread my body and I felt half-dazed. I forgot what 
had happened, and, rising, I went stumbling through the 
forest. Instinct led me to the shack. Two days before, 
I had caused my boy to purchase a third mule, for one of 
the others had gone lame. I mounted the lame one now, 
and rode along the trail to the railway. There I boarded 
the way car of a freight train, and fell unconscious on the 
floor. 

When my senses returned to me I was in a comfortably 
furnished bungalow which, I soon learned, was the 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 289 


Summer home of a New York physician—thirty miles 
distant from Deadwood Valley. I told my host I had been 
shot accidentally by a friend who doubtless had mistaken 
me for a deer. 

Three weeks later I was in New York. There, after 
many unsuccessful efforts, I learned that Miss Trevison 
had gone to Europe. 

In her confession to me on the lake, Paula had told me 
of her relationship with Prince Maranotti, and, believing 
that she had gone to him, I set out for Italy. There, of 
course, I failed to find her. I tried to get into com¬ 
munication with Glyncamp, but he had mysteriously 
disappeared. 

For several months, amid the most harrowing disap¬ 
pointments, I continued my search, then I learned that in 
New York Miss Paula Trevison had become the wife of 
Philip Wadsworth. This information so affected me that 
I nearly lost my reason. Three or four times I was 
almost on the point of taking my life. How she had 
come to wed again while the man she believed to be her 
husband still was living, I could not understand. And 
yet, believing herself to be the wife of Rayon Demain, it 
was possible that, overcome with horror and loathing as 
the result of his mad acts on the night of the burning of 
the log-house, she had sought and obtained a divorce. 

I now resolved to seek the young woman out and con¬ 
fess to her the manner in which I had deceived her. Ac¬ 
cordingly, I went to New York and there learned she had 
parted from Wadsworth scarcely more than an hour after 
the wedding ceremony. Having obtained her address, I 
wrote to her, asking her to see me on the following day. 
In this letter I told her I had something of importance to 
reveal. Not only did she fail to answer my letter, but 


290 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


she disappeared the day after she received it, and I learned 
she had gone to Europe. Once more I went to Italy. 

I found Prince Maranotti at Basselanto, and informed 
him that his sister had become my wife. Not for a 
moment, however, did he believe I was speaking the truth, 
and he treated me as if I were a harmless lunatic. I called 
on him several times after this, but he refused to see me. 

At dawn one morning I hid myself in the garden, 
thinking to meet him when he took his accustomed stroll 
before breakfast. The effort was successful, but he 
warned me that if I did not leave the grounds at once he 
would have me committed to an asylum. I knew he would 
keep his word, but, angered as I was, I was not disposed 
to offer violence to Paula’s brother. So, with bowed 
head, I hurried to the railway station. 

Convinced that my wife was not in Italy, I decided to 
return to New York. The following day I boarded a 
steamer at Naples, and it was not until I reached the 
United States that I learned of the death of Paula’s 
brother on the morning I had left him. 

Two days ago I was visited by a stranger, who in¬ 
formed me that Mr. Westfall was in possession of certain 
facts that it would be in my interest to know. Accordingly 
I called upon him and received the invitation which has 
resulted in my presence on the Barge of Haunted Lives. 

“And so the Princess is the wife of the Gargoyle, after 
all,” hissed the Whispering Gentleman, as he turned 
toward Westfall. 

“No, no, it is impossible!” exclaimed the Fugitive 
Bridegroom, distractedly. 

“If she isn’t, it’s not you, who deserted her, but the 
man who went through fire and water to get the Rajiid 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 291 


diamonds for her, who ought to have her,” growled the 
one-eyed Duckhunter. 

“The law will quickly relieve her of her present des¬ 
perate plight/’ said the Nervous Physician, complacently. 
‘The law will not compel a woman to accept as her 
husband the man who killed her brother. 

“Killed her brother!’’ exclaimed the Decapitated Man, 
wonderingly. 

The Nervous Physician nodded, then, giving a sudden 
start, he glanced apprehensively over his left shoulder. 

“You knew you were under suspicion, did you not?’’ 
asked Westfall, addressing the Sentimental Gargoyle. 

“Under suspicion—yes,’’ the Gargoyle answered. “It 
is suspicion that is founded on the fact that I was in the 
park of Basselanto on the morning of the murder of 
Prince Maranotti. That I was there at that time, I never 
have denied, but of his death I am guiltless, nor did I 
know at the time I left the park that any crime had been 
committed there. More than this, I know nothing of the 
identity of the murderer or of any motive for the awful 
deed.’’ 

“Well, if a gentleman who was able to give exceed¬ 
ingly damaging testimony against you had lived to tell 
his story, you would not now be here to assert your pre¬ 
posterous claim to this fair lady’s hand,” said the Nervous 
Physician, irritably. 

The Gargoyle stiffened in his chair. 

“Who was the gentleman of whom you speak, sir?” he 
demanded, sharply. 

“Perhaps it is well that you tell your story now, 
Doctor,” said Westfall, gravely. 

The Nervous Physician nodded. Then, in quick, 
nervous accents, he began his narrative. 


CHAPTER X 


AT THE END OF A TRAIL 

Had there been occasion to mention my name in the 
course of the narratives that have preceded mine, I doubt 
not that most of you would have recognized the fact that 
in this company is one who has attained distinction in one 
of the most important branches of the medical profession. 
In short, my fame as a specialist in nervous diseases is 
international. I am the author of works that are recog¬ 
nized as standard authorities, and medals of honor have 
been bestowed upon me by several of the most highly 
esteemed learned societies of the world. 

In the course of my investigation of nervous diseases I 
have acquired many extraordinary specimens of abnormal 
nervous organisms, and I may say that this collection has 
constituted the principal hobby of my life. In my museum 
are the brains of celebrated men and women, fibres from 
the fingers of celebrated musicians, vocal cords of famous 
singers and nerves taken from persons who were afflicted 
with extraordinary forms of nervous diseases. 

In my efforts to add to this wonderful collection I have 
spared no time, trouble or expense. Even my conscience, 
occasionally, has been gagged and bound in the interest of 
science, which has been my god, my law, my wife, my 
daughter—everything. 

Aware of this, it now will be easy for you to under¬ 
stand that when the extraordinary mind-reading feats of 
Mr. Glyncamp were reported to me, I should feel the most 

292 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 293 


lively curiosity concerning his wonderful nerve develop¬ 
ment. Indeed, I became so inordinately curious when I 
learned of such strange powers that I determined to seek 
out the man, win his friendship and, eventually, obtain 
his wonderful nerves for my museum. All this I would 
do, be it remembered, strictly in the interest of science. 

Well, being distinctively a man of action, I did not long 
delay in putting my project into execution. I caused 
myself to be introduced to Glyncamp, and, as he was 
really a very approachable sort of a person, I soon enjoyed 
all the privileges of his friendship. Of two things, how¬ 
ever, I was scrupulously careful. I said nothing to him 
concerning my collection, nor did I ever, on any occasion, 
permit him to touch my ungloved hands, or to lay a hand 
on my head. While in his presence I was careful to 
restrain my thoughts if they showed any disposition to 
wander to the real foundation of this strange friendship. 

And Glyncamp trusted me. He was a man who had 
attained to the most extraordinary degree of intelligence 
I had ever known. But, in certain matters, he was un¬ 
sophisticated. Though he was often most unscrupulous 
himself, he placed too much reliance on the good in¬ 
tentions of others. His cruelty was oftentimes amazing 
when he found it in his interest to inflict pain, but I never 
have known a man who could be angered so easily when 
someone else became a minister of cruelty. 

Nearly all his life Glyncamp lived in the shadow of a 
great horror. Whether this was the price he had to pay 
for his possession of his wonderful mind-reading powers, 
he did not know, but he suspected this was the case. 

He was subject to attacks of catalepsy. These attacks 
were sometimes so severe and prolonged that for several 
days at a time even a trained eye might seek in vain for 
some evidence of life. He feared that, while he was 


294 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


under the influence of one of these terrible attacks, persons 
who did not know of his infirmity would cause him to be 
buried alive—a most horrible fate, my friends, and one 
which all of us carefully should guard against, for the 
means of doing this are very simple. 

In order to reduce the possibility of such a terrible 
result, Glyncamp always carried in one of his pockets a 
letter explaining his weakness, and directing that under 
no circumstances should he be placed in a tomb until 
certain absolutely unmistakable evidences of death should 
become apparent to all who viewed his body. In addition 
to this letter, he always had pinned to his undershirt a 
piece of parchment on which a similar injunction was 
written with India ink. 

Now so profoundly interested did I become in this 
strange case of Mr. Glyncamp that, pretending to be 
wearied of my practice, I told him I was preparing to go 
with him when he returned to Europe. Glyncamp was 
delighted. He told me that so long as I was with him he 
would breathe more freely, knowing that the terrible fate 
he dreaded would be impossible. 

His fame in Europe was already established, and he 
now went to Turkey where he was paid a great sum each 
month for the detection of plans that had for their object 
the death of the Sultan. 

It was not long before this strange man honored me 
with his full confidence, and this resulted in my learning 
some of the most remarkable things that ever had been 
brought to my knowledge. More than this, the revelations 
showed that my friend was a sort of knight-errant in a 
wonderful realm that is peopled only by lofty intellects. 
He was an idealist, who, having little interest in ma¬ 
terialistic things, was constantly concerning himself with 
extraordinary psychic conditions. Nothing that was 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 295 


normal appealed to him. It was in abnormalities that he 
sought that divine substance which Nature had engrafted 
in them unawares. In short, the man who was stealing 
the thoughts of others was always attempting to find even 
Nature off her guard. 

It was while he was in Turkey that a Hindu came under 
his hands. By his subtle art, Glyncamp learned that the 
Hindu was a spy who had been instructed by the Rajah of 
Nauwar to watch an Englishman named Lord Galonfield, 
who was supposed to have in his possession the diamond 
eyes of the Rajiid Buddha—the most wonderful pair of 
diamonds ever known to man. 

Glyncamp promptly lost all interest in his Turkish em¬ 
ployment, and, masquerading as a European who had been 
converted to Buddhism, he went to the court of the 
Rajah of Nauwar. There he learned the story of the 
Rajiid stones. 

I do not believe that Glyncamp cared any more for 
those diamonds than if they had been the commonest kind 
of moss agates. The triumph incident to getting them 
was all he sought, but he laid his plans with marvelous 
care, and when he left India he knew how the diamonds 
had been taken from the Buddha during the Indian 
Mutiny, and who was suspected of having taken them. 
He knew, too, how the uncle of the then living Earl of 
Galonfield had been captured and tortured and how his 
effort to commit suicide had been frustrated in older that 
he might be compelled to write a hundred letters, dated 
years ahead, to his father and brother, urging them to 

restore the diamonds to their proper owner. 

But what had become of the stones he had not learned. 
The acquisition of this knowledge was to be his triumph. 
That the secret of their hiding place was in the possession 


296 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


of the Galonfield family was more than probable. Accord¬ 
ingly, he went to England. 

Glyncamp was on the point of wringing the secret from 
the dying Earl, when the son appeared. The Earl died, 
and Glyncamp fled, but, within a few hours, he had 
formulated a new plan. 

The new Earl of Galonfield was young and unmarried. 
Glyncamp did not doubt that he was more or less suscep¬ 
tible to female charms. He would cause him to wed a 
woman through whom Glyncamp might obtain the 
diamonds. 

In Turkey Glyncamp had learned that among all the 
beautiful women who were seen each week in the 
magnificent bathing rooms for women in Constantinople, 
there was none who could compare with Pauline, the 
daughter of Meschid Pasha, a well-known army officer. 
Like all sons and daughters of the Orient, Meschid Pasha 
was a great lover of precious stones and was known to 
have several noted gems in his collection. 

Accordingly, Glyncamp visited Meschid Pasha and, 
formally proposing for the hand of his daughter, he 
offered in exchange the diamonds known as the “Lost 
Eyes of the Rajiid Buddha.” Meschid accepted the pro¬ 
posal. Then Glyncamp told him how the diamonds might 
be obtained through Pauline herself. Meschid gave his 
assent to the plan and forthwith started for England with 
Pauline. Glyncamp, who, in the meantime, had employed 
spies to watch young Lord Galonfield’s movements, 
accompanied the Pasha and his daughter. 

I met Glyncamp on his arrival in England and when he 
told me what he had done, I gazed at him in astonishment. 

“Do you so love the woman that you would give the 
diamonds for her?” I asked. 

He laughed heartily. 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 297 


“Why, no,” he said. “She is certainly the most beau¬ 
tiful woman in the world, but I have no idea of really 
marrying her. Through her I shall get the diamonds— 
from Meschid. The man who is so base as to sell a 
woman well deserves the punishment I shall inflict on 
Meschid Pasha!” 

“But the woman!” I persisted. “What is to become 
of her?” 

“She will scarcely mourn my loss, for it is my purpose 
to unite her in marriage with the handsomest man in the 
world. The diamonds shall be her dowry, on condition 
that I be godfather at the first christening in the family.” 

My eyes were wide with wonder and incredulity. Glyn- 
camp, watching my face, laughed heartily. 

“Come, come, Doctor, you are not a fool,” he said 
reprovingly. “What use would I, who care nothing for 
such baubles, have for such stones as these ? I am a victim 
of chronic wanderlust. Where would I keep them ? Why 
should I keep them? My friends have only a passing 
interest in crystallized vanities, so they would scarcely 
thank me for the display of the stones from time to time. 
And as for the woman—well. She is pretty, no doubt— 
but foolish, as all women are. My pipe and my glass— 
and you—would not be the sort of after-dinner company 
which would appeal to her, I’m afraid. And then, per¬ 
haps, some likely young physician might have little dif¬ 
ficulty in convincing her that my first—or, at most, my 
second cataleptic attack was death itself. No, no, it would 
not do! The pleasure of winning the handsomest woman 
in the world and the finest pair of diamonds constitutes 
all the reward I desire. The Sultan of Turkey has been 
paying me too much for my poor services, and my fortune, 
to which there are no heirs, is becoming quite unmanag- 
able. The detectives I am employing need it more than I. 


298 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


No, no, my boy, the excitement of the chase is all I 
require. The fox and his brush can go to the dogs.” 

I shook my head doubtfully, as Glyncamp, chuckling, 
went to Meschid’s to don his Turkish duenna’s frock and 
veil and oversee Lord Galonfield’s vain wooing of the fair 
woman who had enchanted him. 

But it was not long before the smile left Glyncamp’s 
features. His face grew longer and more grim. He had 
found in young Galonfield a foeman worthy of his steel. 
He also learned that the spies of the Rajah of Nauwar 
were swarming as thick as flies around the Earl. 

And now the old lion began to fight. He felt that his 
wonderful skill had been challenged and that his own self- 
respect was at stake. I began to see less of him. 

Suddenly, Glyncamp learned that Galonfield had dis¬ 
appeared. He traced him to Hetley, and there found that 
a grave had been opened—the grave of a young officer 
whose body had been sent to England during the Indian 
Mutiny. 

The mind-reader scowled darkly as he muttered: 

“I wonder if we will find the other one in a tomb.” 

Glyncamp kept his own counsel pretty well, after that, 
but, several weeks later, he startled me by asking how I 
would like to go with him to India. 

I hesitated. The journey was long. But if anything 
happened to Glyncamp in India—if one of his cataleptic 
attacks should be mistaken for death- 

And so I decided to accompany him. 

We arrived at Rajiid just after Lord Galonfield had 
been released by the jaboowallah. It was Glyncamp who 
caused the retreating Earl to be seized again. The mind- 
reader had won the confidence of the Rajah under whose 
direction the jaboowallah had been working. 

Glyncamp and I were hiding near at the time that 



THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 299 


Forsythe had his interview with Galonfield. It was I, 
who, in accordance with Glyncamp’s instructions, cut the 
vocal cords that made him the Whispering Gentleman. 

But, as Lord Galonfield has said, all that Glyncamp 
was able to wring from him was too little and too late. 

Upon our return to Europe, Glyncamp learned of 
Pauline’s flight and of her relationship with Prince 
Maranotti. Through her he still hoped to be able to get 
the diamonds from Galonfield. He therefore used every 
possible effort to discover her whereabouts. 

The mind-reader had told me of his conversation with 
the unfortunate creature who is known as the Gargoyle, 
and he failed to understand why this person had failed 
to write to him after his arrival in the Unitec| States. 

At length, however, Glyncamp learned that detectives 
other than those in his employ were engaged in a search 
for Pauline Maranotti. Some of these were working in 
the interest of Lord Galonfield, but others still were rep¬ 
resenting the Gargoyle himself. Thus it came to pass that 
all the roads of the searchers led to Basselanto, and thither 
Glyncamp himself repaired. 

The cataleptic attacks that afflicted Glyncamp lately 
had been becoming more and more frequent, and the 
anxiety which they caused me was telling more and more 
on my nerves. I never knew at what moment the mind- 
reader would move off on a new tangent without acquaint¬ 
ing me with his design. And I was almost terror-stricken 
when I reflected on what might happen were he to fall a 
victim to one of these attacks while at sea. Persons who 
are supposed to be dead on ocean vessels are buried with 
a haste that always has seemed distinctly reprehensible 
to me. I knew this sort of thing could not go on forever. 
I was growing weary of constant leaps from one country 
to another, and I wondered how long it was going to last. 


300 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


When Glyncamp went to Basselanto I remained at 
Paris. I had taken a severe cold that threatened me with 
pneumonia when from Naples came a dispatch that Glyn¬ 
camp, the mind-reader, was dead. 

Ill as I was, I hurried to Italy. In the course of the 
journey I sent several telegrams ahead of me commanding 
those who were in charge of the body to make no effort to 
embalm it. At last I reached the place where the body 
lay. A brief examination convinced me that he was still 
alive. 

I soon revived him, but, though he was able to eat, he 
could not talk connectedly, and I knew that another and 
longer attack was imminent. I succeeded, however, in 
getting him aboard a vessel bound direct for New York. 
Two days later he again succumbed, and for ten days he 
lay motionless in his berth. 

At the time he regained consciousness I was on deck. 
It was not until, returning to the stateroom, I found him 
standing in the mddle of the floor that I was aware of the 
change. His face was now white with anger. 

“Where are we, Doctor?” he asked. 

“Just coming in sight of Long Island,” I replied. 

“Long Island!” he exclaimed. “In Heaven’s name, 
man, you don’t mean to tell me that you have brought me 
back to America while—while that murderer, Leon 
Grenault, is still at large?” 

“Murderer—Grenault!” I repeated. 

“Yes. It was the devil-faced monster who assassinated 
Prince Maranotti. I was walking in the garden—when— 
when—Oh, you poor, maundering fool. I’ve had enough 
of you, and now-” 

Seizing a heavy walking stick, the half-frenzied mind- 
reader aimed a blow at my head. I fled to the deck, and, 
not being a bold man, I did not venture to put my life 



THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 301 


in jeopardy by confronting him before his anger sub¬ 
sided. 

That night I sent him a note asking him if he had 
forgiven me. Replying by the same method, he said 
that if he saw my face again he would make it look more 
hideous than Grenault’s. 

I secured a stateroom elsewhere, and, until the vessel 
docked at New York, I kept to it. 

While the luggage of the passengers was being ex¬ 
amined on the dock, I saw a sudden rush of passengers 
toward the center of the big room. I was told that a 
man had fallen. Hurrying to the spot I saw that it was 
Glyncamp. 

I quickly proved, not only that I was a physician, but 
that the fallen man was a personal friend. Several 
strangers then helped me to get him into a cab. I gave 
the cabman my address and told him to get there as 
speedily as possible. Arriving at my house, where my 
two servants remained as caretakers during my absence 
abroad, I had Glyncamp taken to my operating room 
This done, I summoned two of my fellow physicians. 

After making a careful examination of my patient, 
I pronounced him dead. The other physicians did like¬ 
wise, then they left, and that night the death notices of 
Glyncamp, the mind-reader, were sent to all the papers. 
Not until long after midnight did reporters cease calling 
upon me for information concerning his death. 

A sudden death in New York is always, of course, a 
coroner’s case, and usually requires a post-mortem ex¬ 
amination, therefore early on the following morning the 
coroner came to my house and viewed the body. When 
I explained, however, that, as his private physician, I 
had accompanied him on his travels and was with him 
when he died, the coroner was satisfied. I told him, how- 


302 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


ever, that in the interests of science I would perform a 
post-mortem examination myself in the presence of any 
two physicians whom he might select. This arrangement 
was satisfactory and he left me. A couple of hours later 
two physicians, sent by the coroner, presented themselves 
and I led the way to the operating room. One of my 
visitors was Dr. Prellis, who had a modest private prac¬ 
tice, the other was Dr. Felkner, a well-known surgeon, 
who was one of the principal members of a city hospital 
staff. 

At my suggestion it was arranged that the examination 
for the cause of death should be conducted by Dr. Felk¬ 
ner, and that when this was done the body would be de¬ 
livered to me in order that, in the interest of science, I 
might make an analysis of the nervous system of this 
wonderful man. 

Dr. Felkner was a man of massive build, and, though 
slow of speech, his movements were singularly abrupt. 
When I saw that he was about to begin the dissection of 
the body, I slipped quietly from the room to get my 
spectacles which I had left in the study. I was in the 
act of placing these on my nose, when I was startled by 
a hoarse cry from the operating room. 

I heard John, my butler, passing through the hall, and 
I called to him. When he entered I bade him tell the 
cook to have some refreshments for my guests ready in 
an hour, at which time I thought we would be through 
in the operating room. 

The man was about to reply when I heard a second 
cry in the operating room, and the door was flung open 
suddenly. Dr. Prellis, whose face was as white as chalk, 
appeared on the threshold. 

‘‘Come, Doctor—come—quickly,” he said, excitedly. 

“What is the trouble?” I asked calmly. 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 303 


But Prellis had disappeared. Adjusting my spectacles 
carefully, I followed him. 

My consternation may easily be imagined when I saw 
Glyncamp, sitting almost upright on the operating table, 
and supported by Felkner. My poor friend’s eyes were 
wide open and an expression of horror and agony was on 
his face. 

“Glyncamp—alive!” I gasped. 

A glance showed me that Felkner, beginning the 
operation with a deep, rapid incision, had inflicted a mortal 
wound. 

Glyncamp, fixing his great, gleaming eyes on me, said 
in a low, resonant voice: 

“You have done your will. Even while I lay in my 
stateroom on the vessel, your hands, resting on my head, 
revealed your thoughts to me. I knew that if I came 
under your power in New York I was doomed. That is 
why I resisted you. These two men are innocent of the 
crime that has been done here to-night. But you—you 
who knew the secret signs of my malady did not reveal 
them. You, whom I trusted, have murdered me. From 
this day forth, look where you will, you will see my 
face —in all shadows of the earth, in every cloud that 
floats above you—aye, and in the waters of the sea. The 
winds shall forever din a dead man’s curse into your 
ears, and the warmth of the sun shall be to you a breath 
of that furnace to which all murderers are consigned at 
last. In light and in darkness—whether you be waking 
or sleeping—I shall ever be with you. And when Death 
stands before you, as you now stand before me, I will 
be beside him. Until then—until then—remember me.” 

He stiffened suddenly and his chin sank to his breast, 
but, even then, as the lustre faded from his eyes, they still 


304 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


seemed to be staring at me from beneath their shaggy 
brows. 

It was only the mad idea .of a dying man, of course, 
for, if other capable physicians should have been deceived 
by indications of death, why should I have not been mis¬ 
led by them? But it was all very unfortunate, for, doubt 
me if you will, the dying man spoke truly when he told 
me that everywhere I looked I should see his face. In 
my dreams he stands before me. When I read, I know 
he is behind my shoulder. At the bottom of my coffee 
cup—in the lees of my wine—in the ashes of my cigar, 
his features are always taking form. Sometimes he 
comes to me suddenly, and appears in such unexpected 
places, that his ghostly presence, familiar as it has be¬ 
come to me, inspires me with terror. It is because of 
these terrible visitations that I have contracted the in¬ 
firmity which has caused me to be known to you as the 
Nervous Physician. 

The narrator paused, and for several moments no 
word was spoken. 

“And, I suppose, examples of the wonderful nervous 
organism of your friend now constitute parts of that 
collection in which you take such pride,” observed the 
Decapitated Man, gloomily. 

The Nervous Physician glanced over his left shoulder 
and dodged slightly as if some one behind him had 
threatened him with a blow. 

“Yes, yes,” he replied, easily. “Among other things, 
I have the left hand intact. The right, however, and 
portions of the-” 

“Stop!” commanded the Sentimental Gargoyle, im¬ 
periously. “When a man learns that such miserable 



THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 305 


creatures inhabit the earth, he may not find it so difficult 
to leave it.” 

“You do not doubt that I—” the Nervous Physician 
began. 

“I do not doubt at all,” the Gargoyle interrupted. 
“That the cataleptic mind-reader was right when he ac¬ 
cused you of his murder is a fact that is clear to all 
of us.” 

The Nervous Physician, turning slowly livid, ros** 
unsteadily. 

“Do I understand that you, the murderer of Prince 
Maranotti, charge me-” 

“He is not the murderer of Prince Maranotti,” said 
a quiet voice from one end of the table. 

All eyes were turned toward the man who had spoken. 
It was the Homicidal Professor. 

“On what authority do you contradict me, sir?” de¬ 
manded the Nervous Physician, angrily. 

“On the authority of the only witness to that terrible 
tragedy,” said the Homicidal Professor. “Having heard 
what others have said of the affair, I am compelled to 
believe that I am the only person who saw Prince Mar¬ 
anotti die at the hands of his assassin.” 

“You were there?” asked the Nervous Physician, in¬ 
credulously. 

“Unfortunately—yes,” sighed the Homicidal Pro¬ 
fessor, who, in obedience to a nod from Westfall, at 
once proceeded to recount his experience. 



CHAPTER XI 


“what dreams may come?” 

While listening to the stories of adventures and mis¬ 
adventures that have been narrated here, I have been 
irritated, from time to time, by the tendency of the nar¬ 
rators to suspect that certain effects were to be attributed 
to supernatural causes. Eventually the absurdity of such 
suspicions was proved, of course, but why, in the Twen¬ 
tieth Century, they should find even temporary lodg¬ 
ment in intelligent minds I am unable to understand. 

Neither on our planet nor beyond it can exist anything 
that properly may be regarded as supernatural. Above 
nature there is nothing, but in nature there is much that 
finite eyes may not see—that finite brains may not com¬ 
prehend. We know human reason may be wrecked or 
restored by the sounding of a dominant, though simple, 
musical note, just as a great Alpine avalanche may result 
from the discharge of a far distant gun. Though the 
association of such causes and effects bewilders us, who 
would be so bold as to invest them with supernatural 
qualities? 

Until a few years ago a narrative such as you are 
about to have from me would be assigned to the category 
of “ghost stories.” But Science knows better now. The 
scientific breeding of animals and culture of plants show 
that after a lapse of two or three generations there is a 
tendency toward what is known as “reversion to type”— 
that is, a sudden return to one of the distinct species that 

306 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 307 


was crossed in the breeding of the original stock. Thus 
from the egg of an Orpington hen, of pure breed, may- 
issue a chicken which gradually assumes the appearance 
of a gray pheasant. Call it “reversion to type,” if you 
will. In reality it is the return of an ancestor. 

And in the human family the process of reincarnation 
is the same. A man lives and dies, and two generations 
of his descendants pass away, but in the third or fourth 
there again appears in the family line one who possesses 
his idiosyncrasies—temperamental and physical. And 
here we have the return of the human ancestor. Men 
may speak of such resemblances as supernatural, but 
science knows they are the products of nature herself. 

It is in this ancestral reincarnation that we find the 
explanation for those idiosyncrasies which we designate 
as “antipathies.” From one or more of these no man is 
free. Among my acquaintances there is a strong man 
who is conscious of an inexplicable feeling of horror 
whenever he comes within sight of the sea. Another has 
told me that to him death in the cellar of a burning 
house would be preferable to an attempt to save his life 
by passing through a tunnel so small that he would be 
obliged to move on hands and knees a distance of only 
fifty feet to safety in the open air. In the first case it is 
probable that drowning brought a former period of ex¬ 
istence to an end. In the second it is reasonable to assume 
the inherited antipathy had its origin in some form of 
lingering death underground—the collapse of a mine, a 
fall into an empty well or premature burial in a cemetery. 

From my earliest youth two antipathies have produced 
most distressing effects upon me. Never have I been 
persuaded to approach the edge of a cliff. Fear and faint¬ 
ness invariably overcome me whenever I look from the 
window of a tall building to the street below. But my 


308 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


aversion to looking down from a lofty height is equalled 
by another. A strange numbness—the numbness of a 
nightmare—grips my faculties whenever my gaze falls, 
unexpectedly, upon a marble statue. 

Being a man of science, I have made painstaking 
efforts, from time to time, to trace back to their origin 
certain antipathies that have come to my attention. For 
family reasons, which soon will be apparent to you, it 
was difficult to seek the origin of mine, but eventually 
these difficulties were removed and all was made clear 
to me in circumstances so extraordinary that, when I 
have described them, you will be inclined to regard them 
as incidents and delusions in the life of a madman. 

Though a native of New York City, I am descended 
from one of the most distinguished families of Italy. 
For more than four centuries the house of Maranotti, 
rich, powerful and of ancient lineage, acknowledged no 
superior among the subjects of Italian sovereigns. But 
there came a time when its proud head was humbled to 
the dust, and its coronet and vast estates were forfeited to 
the King. 

Prince Delevrente Maranotti, upon inheriting the title 
and estates of his ancestors, shortly after the fall of 
Napoleon had enabled the Italian rulers to return to 
their thrones, became involved in a conspiracy against his 
sovereign. This was discovered, and one night Basse- 
lanto, the family seat, was entered by the King’s soldiers. 
In the struggle which ensued Delevrente was slain in his 
banquet hall. His estates reverted to the King, who, a 
few years later, bestowed them and the title on a younger 
branch of our family. 

Meantime, Delevrente’s only child, a son, was sent into 
exile. This son was my grandfather, who, upon leaving 
Italy, sought an asylum in France, where he married 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 309 


the daughter of a French army officer. Shortly after the 
birth of my father the little family emigrated to the 
United States. Like my grandfather, my father died 
soon after entering the prime of manhood. My mother 
did not long survive him, and thus, at an early age, I 
was left an orphan. 

A few days after my mother’s death I was summoned 
to the office of a lawyer who informed me that it was the 
will of Prince Maranotti that I should be educated in a 
manner becoming the son of a gentleman, and that there¬ 
after I was to look to him for aid in that direction. 

The Prince was true to his word, and from that day 
until I attained my majority I wanted for nothing. When 
I came of age, however, I was requested to choose an 
occupation, and, shortly afterwards, when the chair of 
chemistry in a Western university was offered to me I 
promptly accepted it. 

Soon after this my kind benefactor died, and his son, 
a young man of about my own age, succeeded to the 
title and estates of the Maranottis. The young Prince 
immediately began to manifest toward me the same gen¬ 
erosity that had characterized his father. Several offers 
of financial aid were followed by a series of solicitations 
from the Prince inviting me to visit him at Basselanto, 
the last of these being of such a nature that I deemed a 
refusal to accept it would be an act of gross ingratitude. 

To Basselanto, then, I repaired and found a welcome 
as cordial as ever brother extended to brother, and, as 
I walked arm in arm with my genial host through the 
palatial halls of my ancestors, much as I admired the 
grandeur of the place, I did not find it in my heart to 
envy him the possession of it. In all I saw I felt the 
same pride I should have felt had it been my own, for, 
though fortune had denied me possession of this, my 


310 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


father’s birthright, I still was a Maranotti and a child 
of the old mansion in which, for more than four centuries, 
my forefathers had dwelt. 

The Prince conducted me from room to room, explain¬ 
ing to me the many objects of interest to be found in 
each. Together we visited the various sleeping apart¬ 
ments where my guide exhibited souvenirs of noted 
visitors who had partaken of the hospitality of our fam¬ 
ily. He showed to me the costly family jewels and the 
rare gold and silver plate which were contained in the 
secret closets, but the most interesting room of his resi¬ 
dence he reserved to show me last. 

“This room,” my host explained, “was formerly the 
banquet hall of the Maranottis, but my father, wishing 
to enlarge his library, utilized the old portrait gallery for 
that purpose, and had the paintings hung here. A rather 
rough looking lot, these earlier ones, are they not? And 
the old gentlemen were as rough in their deeds as in 
their features, for some of them were veritable brigands.” 

Then, leading me from frame to frame, he commented 
on the pictures they contained—portraits of old noble¬ 
men and their ladies, with whose mirth this hall, now 
so sombre and silent, oft had echoed and re-echoed 
through many a long night of revelry. Now he would 
pause to recount to me the daring deeds of a brave and 
rugged warrior whose image looked down upon us from 
the wall. Then he would dwell upon the virtues and 
vices of occupants of other frames. This one slew his 
brother in a quarrel; that one captured a bride for him¬ 
self from the master of one of the most formidable 
strongholds in Italy. The lady with a coronet on her 
brow was a Maranotti who wedded a doge. 

His anecdotes interested me greatly, and I carefully 
noted all he said until we paused before the portrait of 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 311 


a young man whose features were rather more striking 
than those of the others. 

“This,” said the Prince, “is the portrait of Miavolo 
di Maranotti, the son of the old gentleman there.” And 
he pointed to the face of a rugged-featured man with 
white hair, in a neighboring frame. “It is believed,” 
continued my host, “that this young man met his death 
at the hands of bandits while defending himself and a 
lady, with whom he was walking, from their attack. 
His body, which had been pierced with a sword, was 
found at the top of a cliff yonder, while that of his com¬ 
panion was picked up from the rocks below.” 

“How long ago did this happen?” I asked. 

“About three centuries ago. That portrait yonder is 
of the Countess Diametta di Gordo, the other victim of 
that night.” 

Raising my eyes to the picture he indicated, I saw the 
face of a young woman of about twenty-two years of 
age. Her features were small and regular, and her com¬ 
plexion a beautiful creamy white. Her red lips, slightly 
parted, revealed a glimpse of her pearly teeth. The calm 
forehead, neither high nor low, was surmounted by hair 
of raven blackness, which, partly unconfined, fell upon 
her bare shoulders. Her eyes were dark and lustrous, 
and in them dwelt an expression that affected me 
strangely, for, stand as I would, their soft gaze seemed 
ever to rest upon my face as if striving to read in it the 
answer to some hidden problem. 

The face of Diametta di Gordo was surpassingly beau¬ 
tiful, yet, strange as it may seem, I did not then remark 
that it was so, for her beauty appeared to be subordinate 
in interest to an indefinable expression that seemed to 
emanate from beneath the fringed lids of her dark eyes, 


312 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


suffusing her features with a glow that gave to them 
the appearance of a sudden awakening to life. 

Stepping back a little in order to note the effect of a 
change of light upon the picture, I was somewhat startled 
to observe what I thought to be an alteration in the ex¬ 
pression of the face, which now seemed to wear a look 
of recognition. Turning quickly to the Prince, I per¬ 
ceived him to be regarding the portrait with such ap¬ 
parent indifference that I was satisfied he had failed to 
observe anything extraordinary, so, believing I had been 
deceived by the uncertain light of the apartment, I at¬ 
tempted to laugh away my ghostly fancies. 

I made some commonplace remarks about the painting 
and the unhappy fate of its original, then we passed on to 
view the remaining portraits. While thus engaged, the 
face of the young woman that had so affected me passed 
out of my thoughts, but no sooner had the Prince left 
me than it again occupied a place in my mind to the ex¬ 
clusion of all else. During the remainder of the day, 
wherever I found myself, whether in the grove, in the 
drawing-room or among the musty tomes of the old 
library, that face, with its strange, inexplicable expres¬ 
sion of recognition, was ever present. 

The Prince had arranged an excursion for the mor¬ 
row, and as the start was to be made at seven o’clock 
in the morning I retired early in order to obtain a good 
night’s rest; but I had been in bed only a few minutes 
when I realized it would be impossible for me to sleep. 

If I lay upon my side, I would see in the moonlight 
the white-robed figure of Diametta di Gordo standing 
near my bed, her garments swaying gently as the breezes 
entered the open windows. If I buried my face in the 
pillows, I seemed to be looking down, down, down to 



THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 313 


where a white-clothed figure lay huddled and motionless 
in a rock-cluster, near the margin of a lake. 

Unable to free myself from these nerve-racking 
illusions, I rose, dressed, descended the stairs and stepped 
out upon the terrace. The night was clear and the light 
of the full moon shed a spiritual radiance over the slum¬ 
bering beauty of Italian scenery. 

The bell of a neighboring monastery announced the 
hour of midnight as I followed a path leading to the 
lake. I had walked only a short distance, however, when 
there flashed into my mind the knowledge that the path 
ended at the edge of a cliff. Dominated by one of the 
antipathies of which I have spoken, I turned sharply and 
moved on in another direction until I came to a rustic 
bench near the entrance to a formal garden. There, in 
the shadow of a little group of poplars, I seated myself. 

I had been on the bench only a few minutes when a 
feeling of drowsiness began to steal over me. Thinking 
I now would be able to sleep, I was about to rise for the 
purpose of returning to my room when I was startled by 
the crunching of footsteps on the gravel path. A moment 
later the figure of a man appeared on my left and my 
curiosity quickly gave place to amazement. Was there a 
masquerade at Bassellanto? If not, what meant the 
strange attire of this midnight stroller on the grounds? 

He was a young man of about twenty-five years of 
age, rather above medium height. His face was swarthy 
and his hair and small moustache were black. But it was 
the fashion of his dress that excited my wonder, for it 
was of the style of three centuries before. His round, 
black cap was surmounted by a small white plume. He 
wore a close-fitting dark doublet, and high boots of light 
leather extended to his thighs. As he advanced quickly 
his left hand rested on the hilt of a sword. 


314 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


“Ah, signor, you are in good time!” 

The words, cheerily spoken, came from my right, and, 
looking around, I perceived another young man, attired 
in a costume rather similar to that which had excited my 
wonder only a few moments before. 

“Ah, Antonio, it is you!” exclaimed the firstcomer, 
halting. “Yes. Ill fares the laggard at a feast.” 

“Your philosophy becomes you well,” replied Antonio, 
laughing. “But, surely, you do not come alone. Your 
sister and-” 

“They have preceded me,” interrupted the other. 

Arm in arm, they moved on together, and a turn in the 
path soon hid them from my view. My curiosity was 
about to impel me to follow them when a hand fell 
heavily on one of my shoulders. Turning hastily, I 
looked up into the face of an elderly man who was re¬ 
garding me earnestly. He, too, was clad in the extraor¬ 
dinary attire that now was becoming familiar to me. 

“Fortune favors me, signor,” he said. “I was seek¬ 
ing you, and thought I might find you here.” 

“Indeed!” I stammered. 

“Yes. I left your father a few minutes ago. He then 
was inquiring of all he met if they had seen you to-night.” 

“My father!” I repeated, in astonishment. 

“Is it surprising that he seeks you at this hour?” the 
old man asked, reprovingly. “The guests are arriving 
and the festivities of the night are about to begin. All 
marvel at the absence of the son of their host. But 
come, come, my boy! This moping like an owl in the 
moonlight will lead to no good. Come with me to the 
hall and entertain your guests.” 

I rose from my seat like one who, roused suddenly, 
finds a vivid dream, with its misty figures and abruptly 
hushed voices, slipping away from him. Faint and 



THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 315 


trembling, I tried to think, to reason. How had I come 
to that spot? Had I come alone? Ah, yes—all was 
growing clearer to me now. I had wanted to be alone— 
that I might think of her—of her whose face had haunted 
me for hours. 

But how, I asked myself, had this woman, beautiful 
as she was, acquired such an influence over me? How 
could I account for the fever of excitement in my brain 
—for the dull, despairing sensation in my heart? Once 
more I seemed to look upon her smiling lips and into her 
questioning eyes. Then a full realization of the truth 
came to me like a leap of flame from sullenly smouldering 
embers. 

I loved her. 

I tried to reason with myself that such a love was im¬ 
possible, for I never had even met the woman. Then, 
slowly, memory came to me. I had met her. It was 
only yesterday I had talked with her while she was gather¬ 
ing flowers in the garden. I had kissed her hand and 
had spoken to her of my love, and she had gently silenced 
me—as she had done, alas, many times before. 

And now despair came to me. I became dizzy, and, 
reeling, would have fallen had not a pair of strong hands 
grasped me. 

“What is the matter, signor? Are you ill?” 

In a moment all was over. 

“No,” I replied. “I am all right now. But where do 
you lead me?” 

“To the hall of Basselanto,” my companion explained. 
“Do you not remember?” 

“Yes, yes—to Basselanto,” I answered. “I remember 
now.” 

The old man eyed me quizzically and retained his hold 
upon my arm. A few moments later the old mansion was 


316 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


before me. All the rooms were brilliantly illuminated, 
and, through the windows, I saw figures in festal attire 
passing to and fro. 

Upon passing through a doorway I found myself in 
the midst of a throng of guests, most of whom greeted 
me familiarly, but for several moments after my entrance 
I was so dazed that I was incapable of utterance. I felt 
that everything about me I had seen before, and I no 
longer marvelled at the old-fashioned dress that was worn 
by all. I was faintly conscious of the fact that the persons 
by whom I was surrounded were not unknown to me, but 
I was unable to recall their names. 

As I seated myself on a chair, an old, though still hale 
and hearty, man approached me. 

“My son, I have been alarmed at your absence,” he 
said. “You should not have tarried so long. Why are 
you so late?” 

“I fell asleep in the park,” I replied, believing this to be 
the best way out of my dilemma. 

“An odd time and place to fall asleep,” the old gentle¬ 
man muttered, suspiciously. “But it does not matter, 
now that you are here.” 

Turning, then, to a white-haired man with a dark face, 
who had just entered the room, he said: “Ah, Doctor, 
I am glad to see you. I feared you would not come.” 

The newcomer returned the greeting and seated himself 
near me. 

The master of the house was in another part of the 
room, and I was viewing with increasing curiosity the 
strange scene around me, when a conversation which was 
being carried on near me arrested my attention. 

“The theory is a strange one,” I heard the Doctor say, 
“but there are Europeans who believe it to be indispu¬ 
table.” 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 317 


“I must confess my ignorance of the subject,” said his 
companion. “Perhaps you will enlighten me.” 

“Well, what knowledge I have has been obtained from 
the priests themselves,” the Doctor went on. “They say 
that, after death, the soul of man does not enter the body 
of a beast, as many assume who believe in the doctrine 
of metempsychosis, but that it takes its abode in another 
human body in which form it receives the punishment to 
be meted out for the errors of its former period of life. 
To illustrate this, the priests relate the case of a man who, 
for some offense, had been condemned to be tortured to 
death. As he prepared to meet his doom he suddenly be¬ 
came as one insane, declaring that in his executioner he 
recognized a slave who once had belonged to him when 
he was chief of a desert tribe. This slave, he said, 
by his command had been flayed alive for disobedience. 
As the criminal was well known to have been a resident 
of the city since his birth, there were few who gave cred¬ 
ence to his ravings, but these few trembled as they beheld 
the anguish of the dying man, for in it they believed 
they saw the justice of an avenging god who made the 
victim of the present sufferer the instrument of his 
wrath.” 

“Do you believe all this?” asked his friend. 

The Doctor smiled gravely. 

“At first I was as sceptical as you probably are, but—” 
he began. 

I heard no more. Strains of music issued from an 
adjoining apartment and there was a general rush in that 
direction. I rose uncertainly. My thoughts were con¬ 
fused and, striving to escape observation, I went out to 
the hallway and thence to a large apartment which I per¬ 
ceived to be unoccupied. Rich tapestries and beautiful 
paintings adorned the walls. The floor was strewn with 


318 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


the skins of the lion and the leopard and soft Oriental 
rugs. Marble statues of various sizes were arranged 
about the room, but these I scarcely noticed as I stepped 
toward a large mirror set in the wall. 

Before this mirror I paused, and the reflection I saw 
there so astonished me as to render me incapable of action, 
for, instead of seeing my person reflected in the glass as 
I had expected to see it, clad in the conventional style 
of Paris in the Twentieth Century, I was confronted by 
the image of Miavolo di Maranotti, as I had seen it 
in the frame on the wall of the banquet hall on the pre¬ 
ceding day. 

Overcome and appalled by the metamorphosis I had un¬ 
dergone, I stood staring into the mirror, striving to grasp 
the meaning of it all, when I was startled by a laughing 
voice behind me. 

“Signor, you are vain—so vain that you have forgotten 
to lead me to the dance.” 

How shall I describe the sensations which overwhelmed 
me as, turning quickly, I beheld the speaker of these 
words ? 

Spellbound and speechless, I felt as if I were about to 
fall. I tried to speak—to breathe—but I could not. 
Then a trembling seized me—my tense muscles relaxed, 
and, like the rush of air to a vacuum, my spirit sought 
my lips, and I whispered: 

“Diametta!” 

Yes, it was she whose face had haunted me for hours, 
and now, as I contemplated the dark hair, the lustrous 
eyes and the form which, despite its suppleness, possessed 
queenly grace and dignity, I felt it was no mortal on 
whom I gazed, but a denizen of one of those invisible 
realms on which the moonbeams rest before they seek our 
planet. Her dress, cut low in the fashion of her time, 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 319 


revealed the perfect contour of her shoulders and full, 
round bosom. She was attired in white, and in her hair 
diamonds gleamed like stars in the dark field of the firma¬ 
ment. 

“Signor!” she exclaimed, laughing merrily. “Why, 
you start as if you had seen a ghost!” 

Struck by the singular propriety of her exclamation, I 
continued to gaze at her speechlessly. The laughter left 
her face. 

“Ah, you are lost in one of your gloomy reveries 
again,” she sighed. “Upon my word, you grow worse 
each day. Whoever heard of a man of your age gravely 
communing with Pluto while the noisy mirth of Venus 
was ringing in his ears?” 

In stammering accents I was beginning some sort of 
reply when there entered the room a young man in whom 
I recognized the stranger who first had excited my 
wonder in the park. Upon seeing Diametta and myself, 
he advanced, and, after saluting us with a bow, he ad¬ 
dressed himself to my companion. 

“I was in search of you,” he said pleasantly, as Dia¬ 
metta acknowledged his salutation. Then, turning to 
me, he asked: 

“And, Cousin, where have you been hiding? Until 
now my search for you has been vain!” 

“He has been here,” Diametta replied. “I found him 
rehearsing the scene of a tragedy in front of the mirror.” 

“I had just entered,” I explained, somewhat chagrined 
by their amusement. Then, turning toward Diametta, I 
continued: “But we are not too late for the dance which 
has just commenced. Shall we not go?” 

“Pardon me while I accomplish the object that led me 
hither,” said the young man, bowing low. “Lady, may 
I crave your favor for the next?” 


320 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


“You have it, signor,” replied Diametta graciously; 
then taking one of my arms, she accompanied me from 
the room. 

It is idle for me to attempt to describe the sensations 
that dominated me while I walked on beside this beautiful 
woman. Vaguely, I remembered that someone had told 
me she had died nearly three centuries before, but I 
banished the memory as an idle fancy. Yielding to the 
gayety of her spirits, my burden of gloom grew lighter. 
As I mingled with the dancers, I made lively retorts to 
witty sallies that were addressed to me. My mind, how¬ 
ever, seemed paralyzed by a sort of pleasurable wonder, 
for the words I spoke came without effort of thought. 
One-half of my personality seemed to be acting indepen¬ 
dently of the other half—one a wondering spectator of 
the performance of the other. 

In a few moments I was taking, with perfect ease, the 
steps of a dance I never had before known. And we 
danced on and on—an old-world measure that was some¬ 
times wild and free, and sometimes as stately as a minuet. 
And, as we danced, I thrilled to Diametta’s touch and 
tried to look into her eyes, but their glances evaded mine. 
I whispered, but she seemed not to hear me. 

At length the music ceased and the dancers dispersed 
among the various apartments of the mansion. As I 
accompanied Diametta to the place where she had ex¬ 
pressed a desire to rest, I besought her favor for another 
dance. She reminded me the next was promised to my 
cousin, Bernardo. I begged for the following one, which 
she granted with ill-disguised reluctance. 

Scarcely had we seated ourselves when we were sur¬ 
rounded by half a score of persons, and soon Bernardo, 
appearing to claim his partner, deprived me of whatever 
conversation I had hoped to have with Diametta. . 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 321 


When I was alone I arose and stepped out upon the 
terrace. All the gayety I felt only a few minutes before 
had abandoned me. Diametta’s reluctance to dance with 
me again depressed and irritated me. 

From the moment I had been confronted by my reflec¬ 
tion in the mirror I had been conscious of a rapidly 
increasing feeling of familiarity with the persons and 
objects that I saw. So fully defined became this impres¬ 
sion at last that I no longer doubted that I was the son 
of the old gentleman who had addressed me upon my 
entrance to the hall, or that the young man then with 
Diametta was my cousin. Diametta, however, continued 
to occupy the most prominent place in my thoughts, and 
I distinctly remembered that on several former occasions 
I had told her of my love and asked her to become my 
wife. 

With quick, impatient steps I strode to and fro on the 
terrace. As the music recommenced, I made an angry 
gesture of annoyance, for was she not, even now, leaning 
upon the arm of my cousin, in whom I saw a dangerous 
rival ? 

Stepping to one of the windows, I looked in upon the 
dancers. Yes, there they were together—one of her 
hands clasped in his, and from that moment not a gesture 
nor a smile of either of them escaped me. As I watched 
them, I could not doubt that my fears were well-founded, 
for that there was a difference in the attitude which 
Diametta assumed with respect to Bernardo and myself 
was painfully apparent. While dancing with me she had 
been gay and lively; with him she was quiet and gentle, 
seemingly taking a pleasurable interest in the words which 
fell from lips that were very close to her face. . 

Unable to bear the sight, I turned away and continued 
to pace up and down the terrace. 


322 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


In a few minutes the music ceased. I was engaged 
to Diametta for the next dance, but, fearing that if I 
entered at once to claim her I should betray my agitation, 
I determined to wait until I should become more calm. 

At length I entered the mansion and began a search 
for my partner. I had passed through several rooms when 
I saw her walking slowly toward a door which opened 
on the terrace. One of her hands rested on an arm of 
Bernardo, and she was looking up at his face. Upon 
arriving at the door, Bernardo halted, and when Diametta 
passed out he followed her. 

I waited a few moments; then, stepping quickly to the 
door, I looked out. They were descending the steps. 

No tiger of the jungle ever stalked his prey more 
stealthily than I stole on after the lovers, who were walk¬ 
ing slowly in the direction of the lake. The right arm of 
Bernardo now encircled the waist of his companion, and, 
as he whispered in her ear, his dark face almost touched 
her own. 

Step by step I followed them, through gardens and 
grove, until they halted in a rustic pavilion overlooking 
the waters of the lake. There they seated themselves, 
and I crept softly forward to a place in the shadow of 
the structure where, unobserved, I might watch and listen. 

For several moments neither of them spoke; then Dia¬ 
metta broke the silence. 

'‘How beautiful it is out here to-night,” she murmured, 
softly. 

The strains of music in the hall of Basselanto fell upon 
my ears, but were unheeded by the lovers. The dance 
had commenced, and I was forgotten. 

“All the world seems beautiful to me to-night,” Ber¬ 
nardo said. “There is only one thing lacking to make 
it Paradise, and that, dear Diametta, is in your power 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 323 


to bestow. It is the right to hold you always in my arms 
as I do now. Tell me, Diametta, do you love me? Will 
you be my wife?” 

Was it the murmur of ripples on the rocks below, or 
the whispers of the nightwind in the branches overhead? 
Or was it the soft “yes” of a woman, borne from her 
lips by a sigh of happiness as she plighted her troth to 
the man she loved? 

I know not whether the question of her lover was an¬ 
swered by word or by silence. She was lost to me—irre¬ 
deemably lost. I was overcome by the violence of two 
powerful passions—of baffled love for the one and 
inveterate hate for the other. . 

Rising from my place of concealment, I looked over the 
pavilion rail. I saw Diametta clasped in the arms of 
Bernardo. Her head rested on his shoulder as she sub¬ 
mitted passively to the kisses he pressed to her face and 
hands. At length Bernardo, raising his eyes, saw that 
they were not alone. His exclamation of surprise caused 
Diametta to look up. 

I leaped over the rail of the pavilion and stood before 
them. 

“What brings you here?” Bernardo demanded, angrily. 

“Pardon the intrusion, signor,” I replied. “I came to 
seek my partner for the dance. Do you not hear the 
music, Diametta? We are late.” 

“No, no, Miavolo—no!” Diametta protested, weakly. 
“Not—not now. You have frightened me.” 

“Come,” I directed, sternly. 

“She has told you no,” Bernardo said. “Now go.” 

He turned away, and, trembling with passion, I drew 
my sword. Grasping it in such a manner that the blade 
was below my hand, I swung my arm with all my strength, 


324 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


striking him full in the temple with the brazen hilt of the 
weapon. He fell, stunned and bleeding, to the ground. 

Diametta sprang toward me with a little cry, and I 
shrank from the unutterable hate that flashed out of her 
dark eyes. Then, regaining my composure, I sheathed 
my sword, and, moving toward her, offered her my arm. 

“Pardon my rudeness in your presence,” I said, “but 
my cousin’s command to me was rudely spoken. It grows 
chill out here. Let us return to the hall.” 

As I moved toward her, she retreated, and so both of 
us passed out of the pavilion. Then, losing patience, I 
sprang toward her and seized one of her wrists. 

“Diametta, I have several times asked you to be my 
wife,” I went on, in a voice that now was trembling with 
my passion. “You have refused. If you do not now 
consent to-” 

“Well, then, coward?” 

Releasing her wrist, I drew my sword and silently 
pointed it toward the pavilion where Bernardo still lay 
upon the floor. 

With a little cry she lurched toward me and caught 
one of my hands in both her own. 

“No, no, Miavolo!” she cried. “Kill me, if you will, 
but do not harm him now. In the name of the love you 
say you bear me, do not harm him now!” 

I tried to disengage my hand from her grasp, but she 
held it firmly. Finally I freed myself, and turned to¬ 
ward the pavilion, but as I did so she laid hold of my 
belt. I struggled with her for several moments, then, 
letting fall my sword, I seized her about the waist and 
flung her from me. 

A piercing shriek rang in my ears, and, looking to see 
where she had fallen, I saw I stood near the edge of the 
cliff—alone. 



THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 325 


Half-blind with horror, I tottered to the brink and 
looked down, hoping I might see clinging to some ledge 
or bush the beloved form I had cast from me. On the 
rocks below I saw her lying white and motionless in the 
moonlight. 

I staggered backward as I realized what I had done. 
Gone now from firmament and lake was all the beauty 
that Diametta and her lover had extolled only a few 
minutes before. The waters and the hills they loved so 
well seemed to frown dark and threateningly upon me, 
and the stars, glittering in sky and lake, appeared to be 
the shining hosts of Heaven assembled to bear witness 
to the enormity of my crime. 

The exclamation of a man caused me to turn around, 
and I perceived my cousin, Bernardo, standing within a 
few paces of me. 

“What have you done?” he demanded, hoarsely. 

“I have killed her,” I answered, regarding him calmly. 

He did not speak. Reeling like a drunken man, he 
leaned against a tree. I did not pity him, as, waiting, I 
contemplated his misery. The pale, blood-stained face 
which, only a few minutes before had been illumined by 
the light of noble passion failed to excite my sympathy, 
for in the staggering wretch before me I saw only the 
man who had dashed my cup of happiness to the ground 
and made me the murderer of the woman I loved. 

But I had not long to wait. Bernardo soon recovered 
himself and, drawing his sword, advanced silently to 
meet me. I picked up my own blade from the ground 
and awaited his attack. 

Little did I suspect that the hatred that then was forged 
in my heart and brain was to endure, like my love for 
Diametta, through coming ages—that, like Bernardo, I 


326 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


was to live only that I might love and hate and fight and 
die—to live again. 

Bernardo attacked me furiously, and, assuming the 
defensive, I guarded cautiously, believing that in a few 
moments I would be able to take advantage of my op¬ 
ponent’s recklessness. At length, penetrating his guard, 
I inflicted a slight wound in his shoulder, whereupon he 
began to defend himself more carefully. 

As we fought on, we moved further and further away 
from the pavilion and the edge of the cliff—a dangerous 
proceeding for us both, for on the ever-changing ground 
there were missteps to be feared, and, in such circum¬ 
stances, a single misstep would mean death. And so, 
as we circled, advanced or retreated, there was no cessa¬ 
tion of the death rattle made by our parrying and thrust¬ 
ing blades. 

But the end came suddenly. I just had parried a 
dangerous thrust when I saw behind my antagonist a 
female figure, clothed in white. Was it she—Diametta? 
No, it was only a marble statue of the goddess Diana 
which—a great chill benumbed my body—my sword fell 
from my hand—the stars seemed to fall from the skies— 
my head swam—I reeled—and knew no more. 

Upon opening my eyes I saw the sun had risen and 
that I was lying on a rustic seat in the park of Basselanto. 
As I rose to a sitting posture I was conscious of a feeling 
of numbness in my limbs. I was trying to recall the 
events of the night when a laughing voice fell on my ears. 

“Ah, good morning, Cousin. You have risen early, 
but come in and have breakfast. We will be ready to 
start in an hour.” 

Glancing up, I saw my young host, the Prince Mara- 
notti, standing beside me; but, as I rose to take the hand 
he extended toward me, I drew back trembling and 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 327 


aghast, for, gazing into the eyes of my generous bene¬ 
factor, I saw that through them the soul of the hated 
Bernardo looked me in the face. 

Once more the hot blood surged to my head, and I 
knew that the struggle in which Bernardo and Miavolo 
had been engaged on this spot three centuries before had 
not been finished. Divine justice had punished me by 
depriving me of my birthright, but I now lived to fight 
again. 

From the manner in which the Prince shrank from me 
I knew he saw my purpose in my eyes.. 

“Great God, man, are you mad?” he faltered. 

The words were scarcely spoken when we grappled. 
I thought to hear him call for aid, but he was silent as, 
straining every effort, each of us contested for the mas¬ 
tery. 

We did not fight as Anglo-Saxons fight—with clenched 
fists—but as savages, with the joints of crooked thumbs 
thrust deep in throbbing, choking throats. We fought 
with knees and feet, and, as each used all his might, we 
moved toward the edge of the cliff. So near did we get 
to it at last that twice or thrice stones were moved by 
our straining, twisting feet and fell into the abyss near 
which we tottered. Panting, cursing, groaning and half- 
fainting, we maintained our struggle. 

Then one of my feet slipped, and a cry of despair 
escaped me. My adversary, thinking as I did, that I was 
about to fall, drew back. By a miracle I recovered my 
balance and reeled toward him. Again we clinched, 
swung round and parted. My open hands thrust his 
shoulders. Weak as was the effort, it sufficed. As the 
Prince fell backward from the cliff, I heard him groan, 
then his body flashed from my view. 

Three days later I was in Paris. There, seated at 


328 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


breakfast, I read in a newspaper an account of the death 
of Prince Maranotti. That he was murdered there could 
be no doubt, for the ground at the top of the cliff beneath 
which his body was found bore traces of a violent 
struggle. 

I returned to this country on a steamer that sailed from 
Southampton, and since then I have been little more than 
a pariah. Unable to obtain employment without creden¬ 
tials, I was compelled to abandon the vocation of chemist 
and shun old friends and acquaintances, with the result 
that for several weeks I have been a workman in a paper- 
box factory. 

None but a man who has felt the blighting curse of 
Cain can know what it means to be fleeing always from 
that remorseless spirit of the law which requires “an eye 
for an eye, a tooth for a tooth and a life for a life.” And 
yet it is not punishment that may be administered by men 
that I fear. That from which I shrink is the certainty 
that, in the fateful cycle of eternal existence, my soul 
must be seared again by the baleful fire of a love that can¬ 
not die—a love for which Bernardo and I must fight, as 
we have fought before, near the marble statue of Diana 
on the cliff of Basselanto. 


CHAPTER XII 


THE DRAINED GLASS 

As the Homicidal Professor finished his narrative, he 
turned to the Nervous Physician. 

“And so, you see, sir, your friend Glyncamp had some¬ 
thing else on his mind when you understood him to say 
that the Gargoyle was the murderer of Prince Maranotti,” 
he said. 

“His language was a little disjunctive at the time,” 
murmured the Nervous Physician, thoughtfully. “But I 
can’t quite understand why a man who possesses the 
characteristics of the Gargoyle should stop at anything, 
yet everybody now seems disposed to make a hero of 
him.” 

The Gargoyle laughed mirthlessly as he reached for a 
decanter and poured more wine into his glass. 

“You do everybody an injustice, Doctor,” he replied. 
“Heroes are made of nobler clay than that which Nature 
found available when she fashioned me. Heroes are 
capable of inspiring afifection in the hearts of friends, but 
in the heart of man or woman the Gargoyle has no place.” 

The one-eyed Duckhunter, clearing his throat, laid his 
hands on the table and looked at them meditatively. The 
Hypochondriacal Painter sighed and stroked his beard. 

“You are wrong, sir,” said Westfall, composedly. 
“With one exception, perhaps, I think I may safely say 
that all of us are now your friends.” 

“By the exception, our host means me,” the Nervous 

329 


330 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


Physician explained. “Having been more or less inter¬ 
ested in the late Mr. Glyncamp’s intentions concerning 
this young lady, I must confess that I do not find quite 
to my liking this Twentieth Century adaptation of the old 
story of 'The Beauty and the Beast.’ ” 

The Gargoyle, twirling his glass of wine with nervous 
fingers, laughed softly. 

“It was a pretty story,” said the Duckhunter, thought¬ 
fully. “But, since the Princess in that tale found the 
face of a noble gentleman behind the face of the monster, 
why is it not possible that our Princess has made a 
similar discovery in the case of the hero of her romance?” 

“If the old poets are to be believed, satyrs have been 
loved by some of the fairest nymphs,” observed the 
Hypochondriacal Painter, solemnly. 

The Decapitated Man rose abruptly, then, throwing on 
the table the napkin which had been lying on his knee, 
he walked to where the Gargoyle sat and held out his 
hand. The Gargoyle looked up sharply, hesitated, then, 
rising, he grasped the extended hand and bowed. 

The Decapitated Man turned to the Aeronaut. 

“Madame—” he begun. 

“Stop!” exclaimed the Gargoyle, sharply. “Though 
you mean kindly, let us not draw aside the veil that 
hides the face of Truth.” 

“I will spare you that trouble, then,” said the Princess, 
as she raised and threw back the veil that had concealed 
her features. 

She was very pale, but her lips and eyes were smiling, 
as she added: 

“Gentleman, I am prepared to receive your congratula¬ 
tions.” 

“Paula!” exclaimed the Fugitive Bridegroom. “Are 
you mad? Do you not know that-” 



THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 331 


“I know many things that I had not even suspected 
before I came to the Barge of Haunted Lives,” the Prin¬ 
cess interrupted. 

The Gargoyle dropped the hand of the Decapitated 
Man, and the Duckhunter, who sat beside him, saw that 
he was trembling. But in the ugly, perpetually smiling 
face there was no change. It was in a slightly shaking 
voice that he asked: 

“Madame, am I to understand that—that you have 
so overcome your dislike for me that you are willing to 
acknowledge me as your—your husband?” 

“Yes,” the Princess answered, quietly. “Like the Prin¬ 
cess in the old tale to which the Nervous Physician has 
referred, the Princess Maranotti has found her fairy 
Prince at last.” 

The Gargoyle shook his head, then, seating himself 
abstractedly, he toyed with his glass. 

“Unfortunately for me, Princess, I came too late into 
the world to profit by the fairy powers that could trans¬ 
form a monster into a man who might be capable of 
winning and retaining Beauty’s love,” he said. “As I 
have told you, Glyncamp once asked me to tell him what 
was the dominant purpose in my life, and I replied ‘When 
I have seen the most beautiful man, the most beautiful 
woman, and the most wonderful gem that the earth now 
holds, I shall die content/ Thanks to the mission on 
which the mindreader sent me, I have seen these. There¬ 
fore, I should be content. But, Princess, I once cherished 
the wish that I might be your spirit lover—that, as I 
lurked beside the paths along which you walked, I might 
hear your voice—that, keeping vigil under your window 
while you were sleeping, I might know no harm was 
threatening you. And, if it is permitted spirits to return 
to the earth, your spirit lover I will always be. But 


332 THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 


your husband I can never be. There is here one who 
should have a greater claim on your affections than the 
unsightly Gargoyle. It is not he whose idle fancies caused 
him to desert you after he had led you to the altar, but 
he who braved so many cruel, unknown enemies in his 
grim attempt to get the Rajiid diamonds and lay them at 
your feet. It is to the long life and eternal happiness 
of Lord and Lady Galonfield that I drink.” 

As the guests looked at him with wondering, fascinated 
eyes, the Gargoyle rose and slowly raised his glass, then, 
with a quick movement, he drained it of its contents. 

“Gentleman,” said the Gargoyle, calmly, “some of our 
stories have been long, and the dawn is breaking. By 
its light I shall be the first to leave the Barge of Haunted 
Lives.” 

He turned slowly, and began to walk toward the arched 
doorway. He moved steadily enough at first, but, after 
going four or five paces, he was seen to totter. 

The guests rose hastily, and Westfall started toward 
the halting man. He was too late. Before the hand of 
his host could grasp his arm, the Gargoyle fell to the floor. 

A few moments later the Princess was kneeling at his 
side. The eyes of the dying man grew brighter. 

As Galonfield raised the Gargoyle’s head and shoulders, 
the Princess pressed her lips to the brow that never had 
felt the touch of human lips before. 

The Gargoyle took her hands. 

“Good-night, my Princess,” he murmured, weakly. 
“If, in your dreams, you seek my wandering spirit, you 
will find it waiting to receive you in—in the Valley of 
the Garden.” 

And it was in the Valley of the Garden that, a year 
and a half later, a man and a woman stood beside a 


THE BARGE OF HAUNTED LIVES 333 


marble shaft on which was inscribed the name of Leon 
Grenault. 

Lord Galonfield, looking toward the northern end of 
the lake, asked, quietly: 

“And yonder lies the Valley of the Perfect Man?” 

“Yonder is the Valley of the Perfect Man,” his wife 
answered, softly. “But the Perfect Man lies here.” 










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